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PROPERTY  OF 

DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


Do  not  remove  from  214  Dec.  Arts 


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ROCOCO:    VOTE    BY    BALLOT: 
FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 


BY   GRANVILLE    BARKER 

THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THE  MARRYING  OF  ANN  LEETE 

THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 

WASTE 

SOULS  ON  FIFTH 

THREE   SHORT  PLAYS:  rococo:  vote 

BY  BALLOT  :    FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 
In  Collaboration  with  Laurence  Housman 

PRUNELLA 


THREE    SHORT    PLAYS 
ROCOCO:    VOTE    BY    BALLOT: 
FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 
BY    GRANVILLE    BARKER 


NON-RF.FBRT 


oaWVAD  •  Q3S 


PROPERTY  CF 
DEPARTMENT  CE  DRAMATIC  ART 


'•- 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,  1917, 
By  Granville  Barker. 

All  rights  reserved 
Published,  November,    191 7 


ROCOCO,  VOTE  BY  BALLOT,  and  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  are  fully 

protected  by  copyright  and  must  not  be  performed  either  by 
amateurs  or  professionals  without  written  permission.  For  such 
permission,  and  for  the  "  acting  version  "  with  full  stage  direc- 
tions, apply  to  The  Paget  Dramatic  Agency,  25  West  4$tk 
Street,  New  York  City* 


-."..».  :,p  V 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
Rococo I 

Vote  by  Ballot 31 

Farewell  to  the  Theatre 61 


661027 


■  1 


Rococo 

A  FARCE 
1912 


PROPERTY  OF 

DEPARTMENT  CF  DRAMATIC  ART 


PROPERTY  OF 

DEPARTMENT  GF  DRAMATIC  MIT 


ROCOCO 

Do  you  know  how  ugly  the  drawing-room  of  an  English  vicar- 
age can  be?  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  all  that  there  should  be 
about  it;  the  old-world  grace  and  charm  of  Jane- 
Austenism.  One  should  sit  upon  Chippendale  and 
glimpse  the  grey  Norman  church-tower  through  the 
casement.  But  what  of  the  pious  foundations  of  a 
more  industrial  age,  churches  built  in  mid-nineteenth 
century  and  rather  scamped  in  the  building,  dedicated 
to  the  Glory  of  God  and  the  soul's  health  of  some  sweating 
and  sweated  urban  district?  The  Bishop  would  have 
a  vicarage  added  grumbled  the  church-donor.  Well, 
then,  consider  his  comfort  a  little,  but  to  the  glory  of 
the  Vicar  nothing  need  be  done.  And  nothing  was. 
The  architect  {this  an  added  labour  of  but  little  love  to 
him)  would  give  an  ecclesiastical  touch  to  the  front  porch, 
a  pointed  top  to  the  front  door,  add  some  stained  glass 
to  the  staircase  window.  But  a  mean  house,  a  stuffy 
house,  and  the  Vicar  must  indeed  have  fresh  air  in 
his  soul  if  mean  and  stuffy  doctrine  was  not  to  be  gener- 
ated there. 

The  drawing-room  would  be  the  best  room,  and  not  a  bad  room 
in  its  way,  if  it  weren't  that  its  proportions  were  vile, 
as  though  it  felt  it  wanted  to  be  larger  than  it  was, 
and  if  the  window  and  the  fireplace  and  the  door  didn't 
seem  to  be  quarrelling  as  to  which  should  be  the  most 
conspicuous.     The  fireplace  wins. 

This  particular  one  in  this  particular  drawing-room  is  of  yellow 
wood,  stained  and  grained.  It  reaches  not  quite  to  the 
ceiling.     It  has  a  West  Front  air,  if  looking-glass  may 

3 


ROCOCO 


stand  for  windows;  it  is  fretted,  moreover,  here  and  there, 
with  little  trefoil  holes.  It  bears  a  full  assault  of  the 
Vicar's  wife's  ideas  of  how  to  make  the  place  "look 
nice."  There  is  the  clock,  of  course,  which  won't  keep 
time;  there  are  the  vases  which  won't  hold  water;  framed 
photographs,  as  many  as  can  be  crowded  on  the  shelves; 
in  every  other  crevice  knickknacks.  Then,  if  you 
stand,  as  the  Vicar  often  stands,  at  this  point  of  van- 
tage you  are  conscious  of  the  wall-paper  of  amber  and 
blue  with  a  frieze  above  it  measuring  off  yard  by  yard 
a  sort  of  desert  scene,  a  mountain,  a  lake,  three  palm 
trees,  two  camels;  and  again;  and  again;  until  by  the 
corner  a  camel  and  a  palm  tree  are  cut  out.  On  the 
walls  there  are  pictures,  of  course.  Two  of  them  convey 
to  you  in  a  vague  and  water-coloury  sort  of  way  that  an 
English  countryside  is  pretty.  There  is  "Christ  among 
the  Doctors,"  with  a  presentation  brass  plate  on  its 
frame;  there  is  "Simply  to  Thy  Cross  I  Cling."  And 
there  is  an  illuminated  testimonial  to  the  Vicar,  a  mark 
of  affection  and  esteem  from  the  flock  he  ministered  to  as 
senior  curate. 

The  furniture  is  either  very  heavy,  stuffed,  sprung,  and  tapestry- 
covered,  or  very  light.  There  are  quite  a  number  of 
small  tables  (occasional-tables  they  are  called),  which 
should  have  four  legs  but  have  only  three.  There  are 
several  chairs,  too,  on  which  it  would  be  unwise  to  sit 
down. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  beneath  the  hanging,  pink-shaded, 
electric  chandelier,  is  a  mahogany  monument,  a  large 
round  table  of  the  "pedestal"  variety,  and  on  it  tower 
to  a  climax  the  vicarage  symbols  of  gentility  and 
culture.  In  the  centre  of  this  table,  beneath  a  glass 
shade,  an  elaborate  reproduction  of  some  sixteenth- 
century  Pieta  (a  little  High  Church,  it  is  thought;  but 
Art,  for  some  reason,  runs  that  way).  It  stands  on  a 
Chinese  silk  mat,  sent  home  by  some  exiled  uncle.    It 


ROCOCO 


is  symmetrically  surrounded  by  gift  books,  a  photograph 
.album,  a  tray  of  painted  Indian  figures  (very  jolly! 
another  gift  from  the  exiled  uncle),  and  a  whale's  tooth. 
The  whole  affair  is  draped  with  a  red  embroidered 
cloth. 
The  window  of  the  room,  with  so  many  sorts  of  curtains  and 
blinds  to  it  that  one  would  think  the  Vicar  hatched 
conspiracies  here  by  night,  admits  but  a  blurring  light, 
which  the  carpet  (Brussels)  reflects,  toned  to  an  ugly 
yellow. 

You  really  would  not  expect  such  a  thing  to  be  happening  in 
such  a  place,  but  this  carpet  is  at  the  moment  the  base 
of  an  apparently  mortal  struggle.  The  Vicar  is  under- 
most, his  baldish  head,  when  he  tries  to  raise  it,  falls 
back  and  bumps.  Kneeling  on  him,  throttling  his 
collar,  is  a  hefty  young  man  conscientiously  out  of  temper, 
with  scarlet  face  glowing  against  carrotty  hair.  His 
name  is  Reginald  and  he  is  (one  regrets  to  add)  the 
Vicar's  nephew,  though  it  be  only  by  marriage.  The 
Vicar's  wife,  fragile  and  fifty,  is  making  pathetic 
attempts  to  pull  him  off. 

"Have  you  had  enough?  "  asks  Reginald  and  grips  the  Vicar  hard. 

"Oh,  Reginald  .  .  .  be  good,"  is  all  the  Vicar's  wife's  appeal. 

Not  two  yards  off  a  minor  battle  rages.  Mrs.  Reginald,  coming 
tip  to  reinforce,  was  intercepted  by  Miss  Underwood, 
the  Vicar's  sister,  on  the  same  errand.  The  elder 
lady  now  has  the  younger  pinned  by  the  elbows  and 
she  emphasises  this  very  handsome  control  of  the  situa- 
tion by  teeth-rattling  shakes. 

"Cat  .  .  .  cat  .  .  .  cat!"  gasps  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  is  plump 
and  flaxen  and  easily  disarranged. 

Miss  Unde>~wood  only  shakes  her  again.  "I'll  leach  you 
manners,  miss." 

"Oh,  Reginald  .  .  .  do  drop  him,"  moans  poor  Mrs.  Under- 
wood.   For  this  is  really  very  bad  for  the  Vicar. 


ROCOCO 


"Stick  a  pin  into  him,  Mary,"  advises  her  sister-in-law. 
Whereat    Mrs.    Reginald    yelps    in    her   iron   grasp, 

"Don't  you  dare  .  .  .  it's  poisonous,"  and  then,  "Oh  .  .  . 
if  you  weren't  an  old  woman  I'd  have  boxed  your 
ears." 

Three  violent  shakes.   "Would  you?  Would  you?  Would  you?  " 

"I  haven't  got  a  pin,  Carinthia,"  says  Mrs.  Underwood. 
She  has  conscientiously  searched. 

"Pull  his  hair,  then,"  commands  Carinthia. 

At  intervals,  like  a  signal  gun,  Reginald  repeats  his  query: 
"Have  you  had  enough?"  And  the  Vicar,  though  it  is 
evident  that  he  has,  still,  with  some  unsurrendering 
school-days'  echo  answering  in  his  mind,  will  only  gasp, 
"Most  undignified  .  .  .  clergyman  of  the  Chunk  of 
England  .  .  .  your  host,  sir  ...  ashamed  of  you  .  .  . 
let  me  up  at  once." 

Mrs.  Underwood  has  failed  at  the  hair;  she  flaps  her  hands  in 
despair.     "It's  too  short,  Carinthia,"  she  moans. 

Mrs.  Reginald  begins  to  sob  pitifully.     It  is  very  painful  to 
be  tightly  held  by  the  elbows  from  behind.     So   Miss 
Underwood,    with    the    neatest    of   twists    and  pushes, 
lodges  her  in  a  chair,  and  thus  released  herself,  folds 
her  arms  and  surveys  the  situation.     "Box  my  ears, 
would  you?"  is  her  postscript. 
MRS.  Reginald.     Well  .  .  .  you  boxed  father's. 
miss  underwood.     Where  is  your  wretched  father-in-law? 
Her  hawklike  eye  surveys  the  room  for  this  unknown 
in  vain. 
Reginald.   \The  proper  interval  having  apparently  elapsed."] 

Have  you  had  enough? 

Dignified  he  cannot  look,  thus  outstretched.     The  Vicar, 
therefore,  assumes  a  mixed  expression  of  saintliness  and 
obstinacy,  his  next  best  resource.     His  poor  wife  moans 
again.  .  .  . 
mrs.  underwood.    Oh,  pi e a se ,  Reginald  .  .  .  the  floor's 

so  hard  for  him! 


ROCOCO 


Reginald.  [A  little  anxious  to  have  done  with  it  himself^] 
Have  you  had  enough? 

the  Vicar.  [Quite  supine.]  Do  you  consider  this  conduct 
becoming  a  gentleman? 

mrs.  underwood.  And  .  .  .  Simon!  .  .  .  if  the  servants 
have  heard  .  .  .  they  must  have  heard.  What  will  they 
think? 

No,  even  this  heart-breaking  appeal  falls  flat. 
Reginald.     Say  you've  had  enough  and  I'll  let  you  up. 
the  vicar.     [Reduced  to  casuistry.']     It's  not  at   all  the 
sort  of  thing  I  ought  to  say. 

mrs.  underwood.  [So  helpless.]  Oh  ...  I  think  you 
might  say  it,  Simon,  just  for  once. 

miss  underwood.  '[Grim  with  the  pride  of  her  own  victory.] 
Say  nothing  of  the  sort,  Simon! 

The  Vicar  has  a  burst  of  exasperation;  for,  after  all,  he 
is  on  the  floor  and  being  knelt  on. 
the  vicar.     Confound  it  all,  then,  Carinthia,  why  don't 
you  do  something? 

Carinthia   casts  a  tactical    eye    over    Reginald.      The 
Vicar  adds  in  parenthesis  ...  a  human  touch!  .  .  . 
the  vicar.     Don't   kneel  there,   you  young  fool,   you'll 
break  my  watch! 

miss  underwood.     Wait  till  I  get  my  breath. 

But  this  prospect  raises  in  Mrs.  Underwood  a  perfect 

dithyramb  of  despair. 

mrs.    underwood.     Oh,   please,  Carinthia  .  .  .  No  .  .  . 

don't  start  again  .     Such  a  scandal!     I  wonder  everything's 

not    broken.     [So   coaxingly   to   Reginald.]     Shall  I  say  it 

for  him? 

mrs.   Reginald.    [Fat  little  bantam,  as  she  smooths  her 
feathers  in  the  armchair.]    You  make  him  say  it,  Reggie. 
But    now    the    servants    are    on    poor    Mrs.     Under- 
wood's  brain.     Almost   down  to   her   knees  she  goes. 
mrs.  underwood.     They'll  be  coming  up  to  see  what  the 
noise  is.     Oh  .  .  .  Simon! 


8  ROCOCO 


It  does  strike  the  Vicar  that  this  would  occasion  con- 
siderable scandal  in  the  parish.  There  are  so  few  good 
excuses  for  being  found  lying  on  the  carpet,  your 
nephew  kneeling  threateningly  on  the  top  of  you.  So 
he  makes  up  his  mind  to  it  and  enunciates  with  musical 
charm;  it  might  be  a  benediction.  .  .  . 
the  vicar.  I  have  had  enough. 
Reginald.    [In  some  relief.^}    That's  all  right. 

He  rises  from  the  prostrate  church   militant;    he  even 

helps  it  rise.     This  pleasant  family  party  then  look  at 

each  other,  and,  truth  to  tell,  they  are  all  a  little  ashamed. 

MRS.  underwood.    [Walking  round   the   re-erected  pillar 

of  righteousness .]    Oh,  how  dusty  you  are! 

miss     underwood.     Yes!    [The    normal    self   uprising.-} 
Room's  not  been  swept  this  morning. 

The  Vicar,  dusted,  feels  that  a  reign  of  moral  law  can 
now  be  resumed.    He   draws  himself  up   to  fully  five 
foot  six. 
the  vicar.     Now,  sir,  you  will  please  apologise. 
Reginald.    [Looking  very  muscularJ}    I  shall  not. 

The  Vicar  drops   the   subject.     Mrs.  Reginald  mutters 
and  crows  from  the  armchair. 
mrs.  Reginald.     Ha  .  .  .  who  began  it?    Black  and  blue 
I  am!     Miss  Underwood  can  apologise  .  .  .  your  precious 
sister  can  apologise. 

miss  underwood.  [Crushing  if  inconsequent.^  You're 
running  to  fat,  Gladys.     Where's  my  embroidery? 

MRS.  underwood.  I  put  it  safe,  Carinthia.  [She  dis- 
closes it  and  then  begins  to  pat  and  smooth  the  dishevelled 
room7\  Among  relations  too!  One  expects  to  quarrel 
sometimes  ...  it  can't  be  helped.  But  not  fighting!  Oh, 
I  never  did  ...  I  feel  so  ashamed! 

miss  underwood.    [Britannia-like  !l    Nonsense,  Mary. 
mrs.  Reginald.     Nobody  touched  you,  Aunt  Mary. 
the  vicar.    [After  his  eyes  have  wandered  vaguely  round.li 
Where's  your  father,  Reginald? 


ROCOCO  9 


Reginald.  \_Quite  uninterested.  He  is  straightening  his 
own  tie  and  collar.]     I  don't  know. 

In  the  little  silence  that  follows  there  comes  a  voice  from 
under  the  mahogany  monument.  It  is  a  voice  at  once 
dignified  and  pained,  and  the  property  of  Reginald's 
father,  whose  name  is  Mortimer  Uglow.     And  it  says  .  .  . 

the  voice.     I  am  here. 

mrs.  underwood.  [Who  may  be  forgiven  nerves.]  Oh, 
how  uncanny! 

Reginald.  [Still  at  his  tie.]  Well,  you  can  come  out, 
father,  it's  quite  safe. 

the  voice.  ^Most  unexpectedly .]  I  shall  not.  [And  then 
more  unexpectedly  still.']  You  can  all  leave  the  room. 

the  vicar.  \_Who  is  generally  resentful^]  Leave  the 
room!  whose  room  is  it,  mine  or  yours?  Come  out,  Mor- 
timer, and  don't  be  a  fool. 

But  there  is  only  silence.  Why  will  not  Mr.  Uglow 
come  out?  Must  he  be  ratted  for?  Then  Mrs.  Under- 
wood sees  why.     She  points  to  an  object  on  the  floor. 

mrs.  underwood.     Simon! 

the  vicar.     What  is  it? 

A  gam,  and  this  time  as  if  to  indicate  some  mystery, 
Mrs.  Underwood  points.  The  Vicar  picks  up  the 
object,  some  disjection  of  the  fight  he  thinks,  and  waves 
it  mildly. 

the  vicar.  Well,  where  does  it  go?  I  wonder  every- 
thing in  the  room's  not  been  upset! 

mrs.  underwood.  No,  Simon,  it's  not  a  mat,  it's  his  .  .  . 
She  concludes  with  an  undeniable  gesture,  even  a  smile. 
The  Vicar,  sniffing  a  little,  hands  over  the  trophy. 

Reginald.     [As  he  views  it.]     Oh,  of  course. 

mrs.  Reginald.     Reggie,  am  I  tidy  at  the  back? 

He  tidies  her  at  the  back  —  a  meticulous  matter  of  hooks 
and  eyes  and  oh,  his  fingers  are  so  big.  Mrs.  Under- 
wood has  taken  a  little  hand-painted  mirror  from  the 
mantelpiece,  and  this  and  the  thing    in   question  she 


10  ROCOCO 


places  just  without  the  screen  of  the  jailing  tablecloth 

much  as  a  devotee  might  place  an  offering  at  a  shrine. 

But  in  Miss  Underwood  dwells  no  respect  jor  persons. 

miss  underwood.     Now,  sir,  for  Heaven's  sake  put  on 

your  wig  and  come  out. 

There  emerges  a  hand  that  trembles  with  wrath;   it  re- 
trieves the   offerings;   there  follow  bumpings  into  the 
tablecloth  as  of  a  head  and  elbows. 
the  vicar.     I  must  go  and  brush  myself. 
mrs.   underwood.     Simon,   d'you  think  you  could  tell 
the   maids   that   something    fell   over  .  .  .  they   are   such 
tattlers.     It  wouldn't  be  untrue.     £lt  wouldn'tQ 

the  vicar.     I  should  scorn  to  do  so,  Mary.     If  they  ask 
me,  I  must  make  the  best  explanation  I  can. 

The    Vicar    swims    out.     Mr.   Mortimer    Uglow,   his 
wig  assumed  and  hardly  awry  at  all,  emerges  from  be- 
neath the  table.     He  is  a  vindictive-looking  little  man. 
mrs.  underwood.     You're  not  hurt,  Mortimer,  are  you? 
Mr.  Uglow's  only  wound  is  in  the  dignity.     That  he 
cures  by  taking  the  situation  oratorically  in  hand. 
MR.  uglow.     If  we  are  to  continue  this  family  discussion 
and  if  Miss  Underwood,  whom  it  does  not  in  the  least  con- 
cern, has  not  the  decency  to  leave  the  room  and  if  you,  Mary, 
cannot  request  your  sister-in-law  to  leave  it,  I  must  at  least 
demand  that  she  does  not  speak  to  m  e  again. 

Whoever    else    might   be   impressed,    Miss   Underwood 
is  not.     She  does  not  even  glance  up  from  her  em- 
broidery. 
miss   underwood.     A  good   thing   for  you   I  hadn't  my 
thimble  on  when  I  did  it. 

mrs.  underwood.     Carinthia,  I  don't  think  you  should 
have  boxed  Mortimer's  ears  .  .  .  you  know  him  so  slightly. 
miss   underwood.     He   called   me   a   Futile   Female.     I 
considered  it  a  suitable  reply. 

The  echo  of  that  epigram  brings  compensation  to  Mr. 
Uglow.     He  puffs  his  chest. 


ROCOCO  11 


mr.  uglow.  Your  wife  rallied  to  me,  Reginald.  I  am 
much  obliged  to  her  .  .  .  which  is  more  than  can  be  said 
of  you. 

Reginald.     Well,  you  can't  hit  a  woman. 

mr.  uglow.     [Bitingly7\     And  she  knows  it. 

MISS  UNDERWOOD.      Pf! 

The  sound  conveys  that  she  would  tackle  a  regiment  of 
men  with  her  umbrella:    and  she  would. 
Reginald.     [Apoplectic,   but  he  has  worked  down  to  the 
waist7\     There's  a  hook  gone. 

MRS.  Reginald.     I  thought  so!     Lace  torn? 
Reginald.     It  doesn't  show  much.     But  I  tackled  Uncle 
Simon   the   minute  he    touched   Gladys  .  .  .  that    got   my 
blood  up  all  right.     Don't  you  worry.     We  won. 

This  callously  sporting  summary  is  too  much  for  Mrs. 
Underwood:  she  dissolves. 
MRS.  underwood.     Oh,  that  such  a  thing  should  ever  have 
happened  in  our  house!  .  .  .  in  my  drawing-room! !  .  .  .  real 
blows! !  !  .  .  . 

MRS.  Reginald.  Don't  cry,  Aunt  Mary  ...  it  wasn't 
your  fault. 

The    Vicar    returns,    his    hair    and    his    countenance 
smoother.     He    adds   his   patting    consolations    to    his 
poor  wife's  comfort. 
MRS.  underwood.     And  I  was  kicked  on  the  shin. 
MRS.  Reginald.     Say  you're  sorry,  Reggie. 
the  vicar.     My  dear  Mary  .  .  .  don't  cry. 
mrs.  underwood.    [Clasping  her  beloved's  arm^\     Simon 
did     it  .  .  .  Reggie     was     throttling     him     black  ...  he 
couldn't  help  it. 

the  vicar.  I  suggest  that  we  show  a  more  or  less  Chris- 
tian spirit  in  letting  bygones  be  bygones  and  endeavour  to 
resume  the  discussion  at  the  point  where  it  ceased  to  be  an 
amicable  one.  £His  wife,  her  clasp  on  his  coat,  through  her 
drying  tears  has  found  more  trouble.^  Yes,  there  is  a  slight 
rent  .  .   .  never  mind. 


12  ROCOCO 


The  family  party  now  settles  itself  into  what  may  have 
been  more  or  less  the  situations  from  which  they  were 
roused  to  physical  combat.  Mr.  Uglow  secures  a 
central  place. 
MR.  uglow.  My  sister-in-law  Jane  had  no  right  to  be- 
queath the  Vase  ...  it  was  not  hers  to  bequeath. 

That  is  the  gage  of  battle.     A   legacy!    What  English 

family  has  not  at  some  time  shattered  its  mutual  regard 

upon  this  iron  rock.    One  notices  now  that  all  these 

good  folk  are  in  deepest  mourning,  on  which  the  dust  of 

combat    stands   up   the   more  distinctly,   as   indeed   it 

should. 

mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  Mortimer,  think  if   you'd  been 

able  to  come  to  the  funeral  and  this  had  all  happened  then 

...  it  might  have  done! 

miss  underwood.  But  it  didn't,  Mary  .  .  .  control 
yourself. 

mr.  uglow.  My  brother  George  wrote  to  me  on  his 
death-bed  .  .  .  ^_And  then  fiercely  to  the  Vicar,  as  if  this 
concerned  his  calling.]  .  .  .  on  his  death-bed,  sir.  I  have 
the  letter  here.  .  .  . 

the  vicar.     Yes,  we've  heard  it. 
Reginald.     And  you  sent  them  a  copy. 

Mr.  U glow's  hand  always  seems  to  tremble;    this  time 
it  is  with  excitement  as  he  ,has  pulled  the  letter  from  his 
pocket-book. 
mr.   uglow.     Quiet,  Reginald!     Hear  it  again  and   pay 
attention.     \They    settle    to    a    strained    boredom!]      "The 
Rococo  Vase  presented    to   me  by  the   Emperor  of   Ger- 
many" .  .  .  Now  there  he's  wrong.     \_The  sound  of  his  own 
reading  has  uplifted  him:   he  condescends  to  them!}    They're 
German  Emperors,  not  Emperors  of  Germany.     But  George 
was  an  inaccurate  fellow.     Reggie  has  the  same  trick  .  .  . 
it's  in  the  family.     I  haven't  it. 

He  is  returning  to  the  letter.      But  the  Vicar  interposes, 
lamblike,  ominous  though. 


ROCOCO  13 


the  vicar.  I  have  not  suggested  on  Mary's  behalf  .  .  . 
I  wish  you  would  remember,  Mortimer,  that  the  position 
I  take  up  in  this  matter  I  take  up  purely  on  my  wife's  be- 
half.    What  have  I  to  gain? 

Reginald.  [Clodhopping.}  Well,  you're  her  husband, 
aren't  you?  She'll  leave  things  to  you.  And  she's  older 
than  you  are. 

the  vicar.  Reginald,  you  are  most  indelicate.  [And 
then,  really  thinking  it  is  true  .  .  .  }  I  have  forborne  to 
demand  an  apology  from  you.  .  .  . 

Reginald.     Because  you  wouldn't  get  it. 

MRS.  underwood.  [Genuinely  and  generously  accommodat- 
ing^} Oh,  I  don't  want  the  vase  ...  I  don't  want  any- 
thing! 

the  vicar.  [Me  is  gradually  mounting  the  pulpit.} 
Don't  think  of  the  vase,  Mary.  Think  of  the  principle 
involved. 

mrs.  underwood.  And  you  may  die  first,  Simon. 
You're  not  strong,  though  you  look  it  ...  all  the  colds 
you  get  .  .  .  and  nothing's  ever  the  matter  with  me. 

mr.  uglow.  [Ignored  .  .  .  ignored!}  Mary,  how  much 
longer  am  I  to  wait  to  read  this  letter? 

the  vicar.  [Ominously,  ironically  lamblike  now.}  Quite 
so.  Your  brother  is  waiting  patiently  .  .  .  and  politely. 
Come,  come;   a  Christian  and  a  businesslike  spirit! 

Mr.  Uglow's  very  breath  has  been  taken  to  resume  the 
reading  of  the  letter  when  on  him  .  .  .  worse,  on  that 
tender  lop-knot  of  his  .  .  .  he  finds  Miss  Uruierwood's 
hawklike  eye.  Its  look  passes  through  him,  piercing 
Infinity  as  she  says  .  .  . 

miss  underwood.  Why  not  a  skull-cap  ...  a  sanitary 
skull-cap? 

mr.  uglow.  [With  a  minatory  though  fearful  gasp.} 
What's  that? 

the  vicar.     Nothing,   Mortimer. 

Reginald.     Some  people  look  for  trouble! 


14  ROCOCO 


miss  underwood.  [Addressing  the  Infinite  still.'}  And 
those  that  it  fits  can  wear  it. 

the  vicar.  [A  little  fearful  himself.  He  is  terrified  of 
his  sister,  that's  the  truth.  And  well  he  may  be.}  Let's  have 
the  letter,  Mortimer. 

miss  underwood.  Or  at  least  a  little  gum  ...  a  little 
glue  ...  a  little  stickphast  for  decency's  sake. 

She  swings  it  to  a  beautiful  rhythm.     No,  on  the  whole, 
Mr.  Uglow  will  not  join  issue. 

MR.  uglow.  I  trust  that  my  dignity  requires  no  vindica- 
tion. Never  mind  ...  I  say  nothing.  [And  with  a  for- 
giving air  he  returns  at  last  to  the  letter.}  "The  Rococo  Vase 
presented  to  me  by  the  Emperor  of  Germany"  ...  or 
German  Emperor. 

the  vicar.  Agreed.  Don't  cry,  Mary.  Well,  here's  a 
clean  one.     [Benevolently  he  hands  her  a  handkerchief.} 

mr.  uglow.  "On  the  occasion  of  my  accompanying  the 
mission." 

miss  underwood.     Mission! 
The  word  has  touched  a  spot. 

the  vicar.     Not  a  real  mission,  Carinthia. 

mr.  uglow.  A  perfectly  real  mission.  A  mission  from 
the  Chamber  of  Commerce  at  .  .  .  Don't  go  on  as  if  the 
world  were  made  up  of  low  church  parsons  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
their  sisters! 

As  a  convinced  secularist  behold  him  a  perfect  fighting 
cock. 

Reginald.  [Bored,  but  oh,  so  bored!}  Do  get  ahead, 
father. 

mr.  uglow.  [With  a  flourish.}  "Mission  et  cetera." 
Here  we  are.  "  My  dear  wife  must  have  the  enjoyment "  .  .  . 
[Again  he  condescends  to  them.}  Why  he  called  her  his  dear 
wife  I  don't  know.  They  hated  each  other  like  poison. 
But  that  was  George  all  over  .  .  .  soft  .  .  .  never  would 
face  the  truth.  It's  a  family  trait.  You  show  signs  of  it, 
Mary. 


ROCOCO  15 


the  vicar.    ICS0//  and  low.]    He  was  on  his  death-bed. 

Reginald.     Get  on  .  .  .  father. 

mr.  uglow.  "My  wife"  .  .  .  She  wasn't  his  dear  wife. 
What's  the  good  of  pretending  it?  .  .  .  "must  have  the  en- 
joyment of  it  while  she  lives.  At  her  death  I  desire  it  to 
be  an  heirloom  for  the  family."  \An&  he  makes  the  last  sen- 
tence tell,  every  word.]    There  you  are! 

the  vicar.  ^Lamblike,  ominous,  ironic,  persistent.]  You 
sit  looking  at  Mary.  His  sister  and  yours.  Is  she  a  member 
of  the  family  or  not? 

mr.  uglow.  ^Cocksure.]  Boys  before  girls  .  .  .  men 
before  women.  Don't  argue  that  .  .  .  it's  the  law.  Titles 
and  heirlooms  ...  all  the  same  thing. 

mrs.  underwood.  %}V '  orm-w 'omanlike,  turning  ever  so 
little.]  Mortimer,  it  isn't  as  if  we  weren't  giving  you  all 
the  family  things  .  .  .  the  miniature  and  the  bust  of  John 
Bright  and  grandmother's  china  and  the  big  Shake- 
speare .  .  . 

mr.  uglow.     Giving  them,  Mary,  giving  them? 

the  vicar.  Surrendering  them  willingly,  Mortimer. 
They  have  ornamented  our  house  for  years. 

mrs.  Reginald.  It  isn't  as  if  you  hadn't  done  pretty  well 
out  of  Aunt  Jane  while  she  was  alive! 

the  vicar.  Oh,  delicacy,  Gladys!  And  some  regard  for 
the  truth! 

mrs.  Reginald.  l_No  nonsense  about  her.]  No,  if  we're 
talking  business  let's  talk  business.  Her  fifty  pounds  a  year 
more  than  paid  you  for  keeping  her,  didn't  it?  Did  it  or 
didn't  it? 

Reginald.  [Gloomily.]  She  never  eat  anything  that  I 
could  see. 

the  vicar.  She  had  a  delicate  appetite.  It  needed 
teasing  ...  I  mean  coaxing.  Oh,  dear,  this  is  most  un- 
pleasant! 

Reginald.  Fifty  pound  a  year  is  nearly  a  pound  a  week, 
you  know. 


16  ROCOCO 


the  vicar.  What  about  her  clothes  .  .  .  what  about 
her  little  holidays  .  .  .  what  about  the  doctor  .  .  .  what 
about  her  temper  to  the  last?  [He  summons  the  classics 
to  clear  this  sordid  air7\     Oh:    De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum! 

mrs.  underwood.  She  was  a  great  trouble  with  her 
meals,  Reginald. 

mr.  uglow.  [Letting  rip-2  She  was  a  horrible  woman. 
I  disliked  her  more  than  any  woman  I've  ever  met.  She 
brought  George  to  bankruptcy.  When  he  was  trying  to 
arrange  with  his  creditors  and  she  came  into  the  room,  her 
face  would  sour  them  ...  I  tell  you,  sour  them. 

mrs.  Reginald.  [She  sums  it  upr\  Well,  Uncle  Simon's 
a  clergyman  and  can  put  up  with  unpleasant  people.  It 
suited  them  well  enough  to  have  her.  You  had  the  room, 
Aunt  Mary,  you  can't  deny  that.  And  anyway  she's  dead 
now  .  .  .  poor  Aunt  Jane!  [She  throws  this  conventional 
verbal  bone  to  Cerbenis7\  And  what  with  the  things  she  has 
left  you  .  .  .  !  What's  to  be  done  with  her  clothes? 

Gladys  and  Mrs.  Underwood  suddenly  face  each  other 
like  two  ladylike  ghouls. 

mrs.    underwood.     Well,    you    remember    the    mauve - 
silk  .  .  . 

the  vicar.  Mary,  pray  allow  me.  [Somehow  his  delicacy 
is  shocked.^     The  Poor. 

mrs.  Reginald.  [In  violent  protest.^  Not  the  mauve 
silk!     Nor  her  black  lace  shawl! 

miss  underwood.   [Shooting  it  out.J    They  will  make  soup. 
It  makes  Mr.  Uglow  jump,  physically  and  mentally  too. 

mr.  uglow.     What! 

miss  underwood.     The  proceeds  of  their  sale  will  make 
much   needed   soup  .  .  .  and   blankets.     [Again   her    gaze 
transfixes  that  wig  and  she  addresses  Eternity.-}    No  brain 
under  it!  .  .  .  No  wonder  it's  loose!     No  brain. 
Mr.  Uglow  just  manages  to  ignore  it. 

Reginald.  Where  is  the  beastly  vase?  I  don't  know 
that  I  want  to  inherit  it. 


ROCOCO  17 


mr.  uglow.     Yes,  may  I  ask  for  the  second  or  third  time 
to-day?  .  .  . 
miss  underwood.     The  third. 

mr.  uglow.    \JELe  screws  a  baleful  glance  at  her.]     May 
I  ask  for  the  second  or  third  time  .  .  . 
Reginald.     It  is  the  third  time,  father. 
mr.   uglow.    [His  own  son,  toof\     Reginald,  you  have 
no  tact.     May  I  ask  why  the  vase  is  not  to  be  seen? 
miss  underwood.     [Sharply.]    It's  put  away. 
mrs.  Reginald.     [As  sharp  as  she.    Never  any  nonsense 
about  Gladys.]     Why? 

mr.  uglow.     Gladys  .  .  .  ignore  that,  please,  Mary? 
mrs.  underwood.     Yes,  Mortimer. 
mr.  uglow.     It  has  been  chipped. 
the  vicar.     It  has  not  been  chipped. 
mr.  uglow.     I  f  it  has  been  chipped  .  .  . 
the  vicar.     I  say  it  has  not  been  chipped. 
mr.   uglow.     If  it  had  been  chipped,   sir  ...  I  should 
have  held  you  responsible!     Produce  it. 

He  is  indeed  very  much  of  a  man.     A  little  more  and 
he'll  slap  his  chest.     But  the  Vicar,  lamblike,  etc.  .  .  . 
we  can  now  add  dangerous.  .  .  . 
the  vicar.     Oh,  no,  we  must  not  be  ordered  to  produce  it. 
mr.    uglow.     [Trumpet-toned.]     Produce  it,  Simon. 
the  vicar.     Neither  must  we  be  shouted  at. 
miss  underwood.  ...  or  bawled  at.     Bald  at!  Ha,  ha! 
And  she  taps  her  grey-haired  parting  with  a  thimbled 
finger  to  emphasize  the  pun,  Mr.  Uglow  rises,  too  in- 
tent on  his  next   impressive   stroke  even  to  notice  it, 
or  seem  to. 
mr.  uglow.     Simon,  if  you  do  not  instantly  produce  the 
vase  I  shall  refuse  to  treat  this  any  longer  in  a  friendly  way. 
I  shall  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  my  solicitors. 

This,  in  any  family  —  is  it  not  the  final  threat?     Mrs. 
Underwood  is  genuinely  shocked. 
mrs.  underwood.    Oh,  Simon! 


18  ROCOCO 


the  vicar.     As  a  matter  of  principle,  Mary.  .  .  . 

Reginald.     [Impartially^}     What  rot! 

mrs.  underwood.  It  was  put  away,  I  think,  so  that  the 
sight  of  it  might  not  rouse  discussion  .  .  .  wasn't  it  Simon? 

Reginald.  Well,  we've  had  the  discussion.  Now  get 
it  out. 

the  vicar.  [Lamblike  .  .  .  etc.;  add  obstinate  now.} 
It  is  my  principle  not  to  submit  to  dictation.  If  I  were  asked 
politely  to  produce  it.  .  .  . 

Reginald.     Ask  him  politely,  father. 

mr.  uglow.  [Why  shouldn't  he  have  principles,  too?}  I 
don't  think  I  can.  To  ask  politely  might  be  an  admission 
of  some  right  of  his  to  detain  the  property.  This  matter 
will  go  further.  I  shall  commit  myself  in  nothing  without 
legal  advice. 

MRS.  Reginald.     You  get  it  out,  Aunt  Mary. 

mrs.  underwood.  [Almost  thankful  to  be  helpless  in  the 
matter.}     I  can't.     I  don't  know  where  it  is. 

MR.  uglow.  [All  the  instinct  for  Law  in  him  blazing.}  You 
don't  .  .  .  !  This  is  important.  He  has  no  right  to  keep 
it  from  you,  Mary.     I  venture  to  think.  .  .  . 

the  vicar.     Husband  and  wife  are  one,  Mortimer. 

MR.  uglow.  Not  in  Law.  Don't  you  cram  your  religion 
down  my  throat.  Not  in  Law  any  longer.  We've  im- 
proved all  that.  The  married  woman's  property  act!  I 
venture  to  think.  .  .  . 

Miss    Underwood   has   disappeared.     Her  comment   is 
to  slam  the  door. 

mrs.  underwood.  I  think  perhaps  Carinthia  has  gone 
for  it,  Mortimer. 

MR.  uglow.  [The  case  given  him,  he  asks  for  costs,  as  it 
were.}  Then  I  object.  ...  I  object  most  strongly  to  this 
woman  knowing  the  whereabouts  of  a  vase  which  you, 
Mary.  .  .  . 

the  vicar.  [A  little  of  the  mere  layman  peeping  now.} 
Mortimer,  do  not  refer  to  my  sister  as  "this  woman." 


ROCOCO  19 


mr.  uglow.  Then  treat  my  sister  with  the  respect  that 
is  due  to  her,  Simon. 

They  are  face  to  face. 
the  vicar.     I  hope  I  do,  Mortimer. 
mr.  uglow.     And  will  you  request  Miss  Underwood  not 
to  return  to  this  room  with  or  without  the  vase? 
the  vicar.     Why  should  I? 

MR.  uglow.  What  has  she  to  do  with  a  family  matter 
of  mine?  I  make  no  comment,  Mary,  upon  the  way  you 
allow  yourself  to  be  ousted  from  authority  in  your  own 
house.  It  is  not  my  place  to  comment  upon  it  and  I  make 
none.  I  make  no  reference  to  the  insults  .  .  .  the  un- 
womanly insults  that  have  been  hurled  at  me  by  this  Futile 
Female  .  .  . 

Reginald.     £4    remembered    schoolmaster  joke.     He  feels 
not  unlike  one  as  he  watches  his  two  elders  squared  to  each  other .] 
Apt  alliteration's  artful  aid  .  .  .  what? 
MR.  uglow.     Don't  interrupt. 

MRS.  Reginald.     You're  getting  excited  again,  father. 
MR.  uglow.     I  am  not. 
MRS.  Reginald.     Father! 

There  is  one  sure  way  to  touch  Mr.  Ugloiv.      She  takes 
it.     She  points  to  his  wig. 
MR.    uglow^.     What?     Well  .  .  .  where 's    a    glass  .  .  . 
where's  a  glass? 

He  goes  to  the  mantelpiece  m  irror.     His  sister  follows  him. 
MRS.  underwood.     We  talked  it  over  this  morning,  Mor- 
timer, and  we  agreed  that  I  am  of  a  yielding  disposition  and 
I  said  I  should  feel  much  safer  if  I  did  not  even  know  where 
it  was  while  you  were  in  the  house. 

MR.  uglow.     [}Yith  every  appropriate  bitterness^     And  I 
your  loving  brother!  * 

the  vicar.     \_Not  to  be  outdone  by  Reginald  in  quotations.] 
A  little  more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind. 

mr.    uglow.    [flw    wig    is    straight.']    How    dare    you, 
Simon?     A  little  more  than  ten  minutes  ago  and  I  was 


20  ROCOCO 


struck  .  .  .  here    in    your    house.     How    dare    you    quote 
poetry  at  me? 

The  Vicar  feels  he  must  pronounce  on  this. 
the  vicar.  I  regret  that  Carinthia  has  a  masterful 
nature.  She  is  apt  to  take  the  law  into  her  own  hands. 
And  I  fear  there  is  something  about  you,  Mortimer,  that 
invites  violence.  I  can  usually  tell  when  she  is  going  to  be 
unruly;  there's  a  peculiar  twitching  of  her  hands.  If  you 
had  not  been  aggravating  us  all  with  your  so-called  argu- 
ments, I  should  have  noticed  it  in  time  and  .  .  .  taken 
steps. 

MRS.  underwood.  We're  really  very  sorry,  Mortimer. 
We  can  always  .  .  .  take  steps.  But  .  .  .  dear  me!  .  .  . 
I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life.  You  all  seemed  to  go 
mad  at  once.     I  makes  me  hot  now  to  think  of  it. 

The   truth    about    Carinthia   is  that  she  is  sometimes 
thought  to  be  a  little  off  her  head.     It 's  a  form  of  genius. 
the  vicar.     I  shall  have  a  headache  to-morrow  .  .  .  my 
sermon  day. 

Mr.  V 'glow  now  begins  to  glow  with  a  sense  of  coming 

victory.     And  he's  not  bad-natured,  give  him  what  he 

wants. 

mr.  uglow.     Oh,  no,  you  won't.     More  frightened  than 

hurt !    These  things  will  happen  .  .  .  the  normal  gross-feeding 

man  sees  red,  you  know,  sees  red.     Reggie  as  a  small  boy  .  .  . 

quite  uncontrollable! 

Reginald.     Well,  I  like  that !     You  howled  out  for  help. 
the  vicar.     [Lamblike  and  only  lamblike^}     I  am  willing 
to  obliterate  the  memory. 

mrs.  Reginald.  I'm  sure  I'm  black  and  blue  .  .  .  and 
more  torn  than  I  can  see. 

mr.  uglow.  But  what  can  you  do  when  a  woman  forgets 
herself?  I  simply  stepped  aside  ...  I  happen  to  value  my 
dignity. 

The  door  opens.     Miss  Underwood  with  the  vase.     She 
deposits   it  on  the  mahogany  table.     It  is  two  feet  in 


ROCOCO  21 


height.     It  is  lavishly  blotched  with  gold  and  white  and 
red.    It  has  curves  and  crinkles.    Its  handles  are  bossy. 
My  God,  it  is  a  Vase! 
MISS  underwood.     There  it  is. 

mr.  uglow.     [With  a  victor's  dignity.'}    Thank  you,  Miss 
Underwood.     [_He   puts   up  gold-rimmed  glasses.}     Ah  .  .  . 
pure  Rococo! 
Reginald.  The  Vi-Cocoa  vase! 
mr.  uglow.     That's  not  funny,  Reginald. 
Reginald.     Well  ...  I  think  it  is. 

The  trophy  before  him,  Mr.  Uglow  mellows. 
mr.  uglow.  Mary,  you've  often  heard  George  tell  us. 
The  Emperor  welcoming  'em  .  .  .  fine  old  fellow  .  .  . 
speech  in  German  .  .  .  none  of  them  understood  it.  Then 
at  the  end  .  .  .  Gentlemen,  I  raise  my  glass.  Hock  .  .  . 
hock  .  .  .  hock! 

Reginald.  \Who  knows  a  German  accent  when  he  hears  it.} 
A  little  more  spit  in  it. 

mr.  uglow.     Reginald,  you're  very  vulgar. 
Reginald.     Is  that  Potsdam? 

The  monstrosity  has  coloured  views  on  it,  one  back,  one 
front. 
MR.    uglow.     Yes  .  .  .  home  of    Friedrich    der    Grosse! 
A  great  nation.     We  can  learn  a  lot  from  'em! 

This  was  before  the  war.     What  he  says  of  them  now 
is  unprintable. 
Reginald.     Yes.     I  suppose   it's  a  jolly  handsome   piece 
of  goods.     Cost  a  lot. 

MR.  uglow.     Royal  factory  .  .  .     built  to  imitate  Sevres! 
Apparently   he  would  contemplate  it  for  hours.     But 
the  Vicar  .  .  .  Lamblike,  etc. ;  add  insinuating  now. 
the   vicar.     Well,    Mortimer,    here    is    the   vase.     Now 
where  are  we? 

MRS.  Reginald.  [Really  protesting  for  the  first  time!} 
Oh  .  .  .  are  we  going  to  begin  all  over  again!  Why  don't 
you  sell  it  and  share  up? 


22  ROCOCO 


mrs.  underwood.  Gladys,  I  don't  think  that  would  be 
quite  nice. 

mrs.  Reginald.     I  can't  see  why  not. 

mr.  uglow.     Sell  an  heirloom  ...  it  can't  be  done. 

Reginald.  Oh,  yes,  it  can.  You  and  I  together  .  .  .  cut 
off  the  entail  .  .  .  that's  what  it's  called.  It'd  fetch  twenty 
pounds  at  Christie's. 

mr.  uglow.  [The  sight  of  it  has  exalted  him  beyond  reason.] 
More  .  .  .  more!  First  class  rococo.  I  shouldn't  dream 
of  it. 

Miss   Underwood  has  resumed   her    embroidery.      She 
pulls  a  determined  needle  as  she  says  .  .  . 

miss  underwood.  I  think  Mary  would  have  a  share  in 
the  proceeds,  wouldn't  she? 

mr.  uglow.     I  think  not. 

the  vicar.     Why  not,  Mortimer? 

mr.  uglow.  [With  fine  detachment .]  Well,  it's  a  point 
of  law.  I'm  not  quite  sure  .  .  .  but  let's  consider  it  in 
Equity.  [Not  that  he  knows  what  on  earth  he  means!]  If  I 
died  .  .  .  and  Reginald  died  childless  and  Mary  survived 
us  .  .  .  and  it  came  to  her?  Then  there  would  be  our 
cousins  the  Bamfords  as  next  inheritors.  Could  she  by 
arrangement  with  them  sell  and  .  .  .  ? 

mrs.  underwood.  I  shouldn't  like  to  sell  it.  It  would 
seem  like  a  slight  on  George  ,  .  .  because  he  went  bankrupt 
perhaps.     And  Jane  always  had  it  in  her  bedroom. 

miss  underwood.  [Thimbling  the  determined  needle 
through.']     Most  unsuitable  for  a  bedroom. 

mrs.  underwood.  [Anxious  to  pleased]  Didn't  you 
suggest,  Simon,  that  I  might  undertake  not  to  leave  it  out 
of  the  family? 

the  vicar.  [Covering  a  weak  spot.]  In  private  conversa- 
tion with   you,   Mary  .  .  . 

mr.  uglow.  [Most  high  and  mighty,  oh  most!]  I  don't 
accept  the  suggestion.     I  don't  accept  it  at  all. 

the  vicar.     [And  now  taking  the  legal  line  in  his  turn.] 


ROCOCO  23 


Let  me  point  out  to  you,  Mortimer,  that  there  is  nothing 
to  prevent  Mary's  selling  the  vase  for  her  own  exclusive 
benefit. 
mr.  uglow.    {His  guard  down.~\    Simon! 
the  vicar.    {Satisfied  to  have  touched  him.\\    Once  again, 
I  merely  insist  upon  a  point  of  principle. 

MR.  uglow.  {But  now  flourishing  his  verbal  sword.-}  And 
I  insist  ...  let  everybody  understand  it  ...  I  insist  that 
all  thought  of  selling  an  heirloom  is  given  up!  Reginald  .  .  . 
Gladys,  you  are  letting  me  be  exceedingly  upset. 

Reginald.  Well  .  .  .  shall  I  walk  off  with  it?  They 
couldn't  stop  me. 

He  lifts  it  up;  and  this  simplest  of  solutions  strikes  them 
all  stupcnt;  except  Miss  Underwood,  who  glances  under 
her  bushy  eyebrows. 
miss  underwood.     You'll  drop  it  if  you're  not  careful. 
mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  Reggie,  you  couldn't  carry  that 
to  the  station  .  .  .  everyone  would  stare  at  you. 

the  vicar.  I  hope  you  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  an 
unprincipled  act. 

mrs.  Reginald.     I  won't  have  it  at  home,  Reg,  so  I  tell 
you.    One  of  the  servants'd  be  sure  to  ...   !  {She  sighs 
desperately, .]     Why  not  sell  the  thing? 
mr.  uglow.     Gladys,  be  silent. 

Reginald.  {As  he  puts  the  vase  down,  a  little  nearer  the 
edge  of  the  tabled]     It  is  a  weight. 

So  they  have  argued  high  and  argued  low  and  also  argued 
round  about  it;  they  have  argued  in  a  f till  circle.  And 
now  there  is  a  deadly  calm.  Mr.  Uglow  breaks  it; 
his  voice  trembles  a  little  as  does  his  hand  with  its  signet 
ring  rattling  on  the  table. 
mr.  uglow.  Then  we  are  just  where  we  started  half  an 
hour  ago  .  .  .  are  we,  Simon? 

the  vicar.     {Lamblike  in  excelsis.'}     Precisely,  Mortimer. 

mr.    uglow.     I'm    sorry.     I'm   very    sorry.     {He    gazes 

at  them  with  cool  ferocity. 2    Now  let  us  all  keep  our  tempers. 


24  ROCOCO 


the  vicar.     I  hope  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  lose  mine. 

MR.  uglow.     Nor  I  mine. 

He  seems  not  to  move  a  muscle,  but  in  some  mysterious 
way  his  wig  shifts:   a  sure  sign. 

MRS.  underwood.  Oh,  Mortimer,  you're  going  to  get 
excited. 

MR.  uglow.     I  think  not,  Mary.     I  trust  not. 

Reginald.  {Proffering  real  temptation.']  Father  .  .  . 
come  away  and  write  a  letter  about  it. 

MR.  uglow.  {As  his  wrath  swells.]  If  I  write  a  letter  .  .  . 
if  my  solicitors  have  to  write  a  letter  .  .  .  there  are 
people  here  who  will  regret  this  day. 

MRS.  underwood.  {Trembling  at  the  coming  storm.] 
Simon,  I'd  much  sooner  he  took  it  .  .  .  I'd  much  rather 
he  took  everything  Jane  left  me. 

mr.  uglow.    Jane  did  not  leave  it  to  you,  Mary. 

mrs.  underwood.  Oh,  Mortimer,  she  did  try  to  leave  it 
to  me. 

MR.  uglow.  {Running  up  the  scale  of  indignation^]  She 
may  have  tried  .  .  .  but  she  did  not  succeed  .  .  .  because 
she  could  not  .  .  .  because  she  had  no  right  to  do  so.  {And 
reaching  the  summit.]    I  am  not  in  the  least  excited. 

Suddenly   Miss    Underwood  takes   a   shrewd  hand  in 
the  game. 

miss  underwood.     Have  you  been  to  your  lawyer? 

MR.  uglow.     {Swivelling  round.]     What's  that? 

miss  uglow.     Have  you  asked  your  lawyer? 
He  has  not. 

MR.  uglow.  Gladys,  I  will  not  answer  her.  I  refuse  to 
answer  the  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  the  female.  {But  he  has  funked 
the  'futile.'] 

MRS.   Reginald.     {Soothing  him.]     All  right,   father. 

miss  underwood.  He  hasn't  because  he  knows  what  his 
lawyer  would  say.     Rot's  what  his  lawyer  would  say! 

mr.  uglow.  {Calling  on  the  gods  to  protect  this  woman 
from  him.2    Heaven  knows  I  wish  to  discuss  this  calmly! 


ROCOCO  25 


Reginald.     Aunt  Mary,  might  I  smoke? 
miss  underwood.     Not  in  the  drawing-room. 
mrs.    underwood.     No  .  .  .  not    in   the  drawing-room, 
please,  Reginald. 

mr.  uglow.     You're  not  to  go  away,  Reginald. 
Reginald.     Oh,  well  .  .  .  hurry  up. 

Mr.  Uglow  looks  at  the  Vicar.      The  Vicar  is  actually 

smiling.     Can  this  mean  defeat  for  the  house  of  Uglow  ? 

Never. 

MR.  uglow.     Do  I  understand  that  on  your  wife's  behalf 

you  entirely  refuse  to  own  the  validity  of  my  brother  George's 

letter  .  .  .  where  is  it?  ...  I  read  you  the  passage  written 

on  his  death-bed. 

the  vicar.  ^Measured  and  confident.  Victory  gleams 
for  him  now.J  Why  did  he  not  mention  the  vase  in  his 
will? 

mr.  uglow.    There  were  a  great  many  things  he  did  not 
mention  in  his  will. 
the  vicar.     Was  his  widow  aware  of  the  letter? 
mr.  uglow.     You  know  she  was. 

the  vicar.  Why  did  she  not  carry  out  what  you  think 
to  have  been  her  husband's  intention? 

mr.  uglow.     Because  she  was  a  beast  of  a  woman. 

Mr.   Uglow  is  getting   the  worst   of   it,  his  temper  is 
slipping. 
mrs.  underwood.    Mortimer,  what  language  about  the 
newly  dead! 
the  vicar.     An  heirloom  in  the  family? 
mr.  uglow.     Quite  so. 

the  vicar.  On  what  grounds  do  you  maintain  that 
George's  intentions  are  not  carried  out  when  it  is  left  to 
my  wife? 

And  indeed,  'Mr.  Uglow   is  against  the  ropes,'  so  to 
speak. 
miss  underwood.     The  man  hasn't  a  wig  to  stand  on.  .  .  . 
I  mean  a  leg. 


26  ROCOCO 


MR.  uglow.  f^Pale  with  fury,  hoarse  with  it,  even  pathetic 
in  it.]  Don't  you  speak  to  me  ...  I  request  you  not  to 
speak  to  me. 

Reginald    and    Gladys    quite    seriously    think    this  is 
bad  for  him. 

Reginald.  Look  here,  father,  Aunt  Mary  will  undertake 
not  to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family.     Leave  it  at  that. 

mrs.  Reginald.  We  don't  want  the  thing,  father  .  .  . 
the  drawing-room's  full  already. 

mr.  uglow.  IfThe  pathos  in  him  growing;  he  might  flood 
the  best  Brussels  with  tears  at  any  moment^]  It's  not  the  vase. 
It's  no  longer  the  vase.     It's  the  principle. 

mrs.  underwood.  Oh,  don't,  Mortimer  .  .  .  don't  be 
like  Simon.  That's  why  I  mustn't  give  in.  It'll  make 
it  much  more  difficult  if  you  start  thinking  of  it  like 
that. 

miss  underwood.  ^Pulling  and  pushing  that  embroidery 
needle  more  grimly  than  ever. J  It's  a  principle  in  our  family 
not  to  be  bullied. 

mrs.  Reginald.  \In  almost  a  vulgar  tone,  really."]  If 
she'd  go  and  mind  her  own  family's  business! 

The  Vicar  knows  that  he  has  his  Uglows  on  the  run. 
Suavely  he  presses  the  advantage. 

the  vicar.  I  am  sorry  to  repeat  myself,  Mortimer,  but 
the  vase  was  left  to  Jane  ,  absolutely.  It  has  been 
specifically  left  to  Mary.  She  is  under  no  obligation  to 
keep  it  in  the  family. 

mr.  uglow.  ^Control  breaking^  You'll  get  it,  will  you 
.  .  .  you  and  your  precious  female  sister? 

the  vicar.  ^Quieter  and  quieter;  that  superior  quietude^] 
Oh,  this  is  so  unpleasant. 

mr.  uglow.  ^Control  broken!]  Never!  Never! !  .  .  . 
not  if  I  beggar  myself  in  law-suits. 

miss  underwood.  X^A  sudden  and  vicious  jab.]  Who 
wants  the  hideous  thing? 

mr.    uglow.    ^Broken,    all   of  him.    In   sheer   hysterics. 


ROCOCO  27 


Tears  starting  from  his  eyes.}  Hideous!  You  hear  her? 
They'd  sell  it  for  what  it  would  fetch.  My  brother  George's 
rococo  vase!  An  objet  d'art  et  vertu  ...  an  heirloom  .  .  . 
a  family  record  of  public  service!  Have  you  no  feelings, 
Mary? 

MRS.  underwood.     [Dissolved.}     Oh,  I'm  very  unhappy. 

Again  are  Mr.  Ugl&w  and  the  Vicar  breast  to  breast. 

the  vicar.     Don't  make  your  sister  cry,  sir. 

MR.  uglow.     Make  your  sister  hold  her  tongue,  sir.     She 

has  no  right  in  this  discussion  at  all.     Am  I  to  be  provoked 

and  badgered  by  a  Futile  Female? 

The  Vicar  and  Mr.  Uglow  are  intent  on  each  other,  the 
others  are  intent  on  them.     No  one  notices  that  Miss 
Underwood' s  embroidery   is   very   decidedly  laid  down 
and  that  her  fingers  begin  to  twitch. 
the  vicar.     How  dare  you  suppose,  Mortimer,  that  Mary 
and  I  would  not  respect  the  wishes  of  the  dead? 
MR.  uglow.     It's  nothing  to  do  with  you,  either. 

Miss    Undenvood    has   risen  from    her   chair.      This 
Gladys  does  notice. 
MRS.  Reginald.     I  say  .  .  .  Uncle  Simon. 
the  vicar.     What  is  it? 

Reginald.  Look  here,  Uncle  Simon,  let  Aunt  Mary 
write  a  letter  undertaking.  .  .  .  There's  no  need  for  all 
this  row.  .  .  . 

MRS.  underwood.     I  will!     I'll  undertake  anything! 
the   vicar.     [The   Church   on    its   militant   dignity   now.} 
Keep  calm,  Mary.     I  am  being  much  provoked,  too.     Keep 
calm. 

MR.  uglow.  [Stamping  it  out.'}  He  won't  let  her  .  .  . 
he  and  his  sister  ...  he  won't  give  way  in  anything.  Why 
should  I  be  reasonable? 

Reginald.     If  she  will  undertake  it,  will  you  .  .  .  ? 
MRS.  Reginald.     Oh,  Aunt  Mary,  stop  her! 

In  the  precisest  manner  possible,  judging  her  distance 
with  care,  aiming  well  and  true,  Miss  Underwood  has 


28  ROCOCO 


for  the  second  lime  to-day,  soundly  boxed  Mr.  U glow's 
ear.    He  yells. 
mr.  uglow.     I  say  .  .  .  I'm  hurt. 
Reginald.     Look  here  now  .  .  .  not  again! 
the  vicar.     [He  gets  flustered.     No  wonder.']     Carinthia! 
I  should  have  taken  steps!     It  is  almost  excusable. 
MR.  uglow.     I'm  seriously  hurt. 

MRS.  Reginald.     You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
miss  underwood.    Did  you  feel  the  thimble? 
MRS.   underwood.     Oh,   Carinthia,  this  is  dreadful! 
MR.  uglow.     I  wish  to  preserve  my  dignity. 

He  backs  out  of  her  reach  that  he  may  the  belter  do  so. 
miss  underwood.    Your  wig's  crooked. 
MRS.  Reginald.     [Rousing:    though  her  well-pinched  arms 
have  lively  recollections  of  half  an  hour  ago.]    Don't  you  insult 
my  father. 

miss  underwood.  Shall  I  put  it  straight?  It'll  be  off 
again. 

She  advances,  her  eyes  gleaming.     To  do  .  .  .  Heaven 
knows  what! 
mr.  uglow.    [Still  backing!]     Go  away. 
Reginald.     [Who   really   doesn't  fancy   tackling   the  lady 
either.]     Why  don't  you  keep  her  in  hand? 

mr.  uglow.  [Backed  as  far  as  he  can,  and  in  terror.] 
Simon,  you're  a  cad  and  your  sister's  a  mad  cad.  Take 
her  away. 

But  this  the  Vicar  will  not  endure.  He  has  been  called  a  cad, 
and  that  no  English  gentleman  will  stand,  and  a  clergy- 
man is  a  gentleman,  sir.  In  ringing  tones  and  with  his 
finest  gesture  you  hear  him.  "Get  out  of  my  house!" 
Mr.  Uglow  doubtless  could  reply  more  fittingly  were  it 
not  that  Miss  Underwood  still  approaches.  He  is 
feebly  forcible  merely.  "Don't  you  order  me  about," 
he  quavers.  What  is  he  but  a  fascinated  rabbit  before 
the  terrible  woman?  The  gentlemanly  Vicar  advances  — 
"Get  out  before  I  put  you  out,"  he  vociferates  —  English- 


ROCOCO  29 


man  to  the  backbone.  But  that  is  Reginald's  waited- 
for  excuse.  "Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  he  says  and  bears 
down  on  the  Vicar.  Mrs.  Undei-wood  yelps  in  soft 
but  agonized  apprehension:  "Oh,  Simon,  be  careful." 
Mr.  Uglow  has  his  hands  up,  not  indeed  in  token  of 
surrender,  —  though  surrender  to  the  virago  poised  at  him 
he  would,  —  but  to  shield  his  precious  wig. 

"Mind  my  head,  do,"  he  yells;  he  will  have  it  that  it  is  his  head. 
"Come  away  from  my  father,"  calls  out  Mrs.  Reginald, 
stoutly  clasping  Miss  Underwood  from  behind  round 
that  iron-corseted  waist.  Miss  Underwood  swivels 
round.  "Don't  you  touch  me,  Miss,"  she  snaps.  But 
Gladys  has  weight  and  the  two  are  toppling  groundward 
while  Reginald,  one  hand  on  the  Vicar,  one  grabbing  at 
Miss  Underwood  to  protect  his  wife  ("Stop  it,  do!"  he 
shouts),  is  outbalanced.  And  the  Vicar  making  still 
determinedly  for  Mr.  Uglow,  and  Mr.  Uglow,  his  wig 
securer,  preparing  to  defy  the  Vicar,  the  melee  is  joined 
once  more.     Only  Mrs.  Underwood  is  so  far  safe. 

The  fighters  breathe  hard  and  sway.  They  sway  against  the 
great  mahogany  table.  The  Rococo  Vase  totters;  it 
falls;  it  is  smashed  to  pieces.  By  a  supreme  effort 
the  immediate  authors  of  its  destruction  —  linked  to- 
gether —  contrive  not  to  sit  down  among  them.  Mrs. 
Underwood  is  heard  to  breathe,  "Oh  .  .  .  .  Thank 
goodness." 


Vote  by  Ballot 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


1914 


PROPERTY  OF 
PASTKIENT  OF •  DRARATIC  ART 


property  of 

depart:.::.:!  of  dramatic  art 


VOTE   BY   BALLOT 

//  is  one  of  those  days  of  spring  in  England  when  the  English 
spring  is  behaving  itself.  The  sun  shines  white  through 
the  open  French  window  into  Mrs.  Tor  pothouse's 
drawing-room  and  adds  another  pattern  to  the  carpet, 
while  little  motes  that  must  otherwise  inhabit  the  room 
unseen  seem  happy  in  its  beams.  It  is  a  pretty  room, 
empty  at  the  moment,  for  ten  minutes  ago  Mrs.  Torpen- 
kouse,  with  a  garden  hat  on,  her  hands  looking  enormous 
in  rough  gloves,  a  basket  slung  to  her  arm,  went  out 
through  that  open  window.  It  is  Mrs.  Torpcnhouse's 
own  particular  room  and  she  lives  her  life  in  it.  But  it 
is  called  the  drawing-room;  just  as  Mr.  Torpcnhouse's 
particular  room  is  called  the  study.  Then  there  is  the 
dining-room,  of  course,  and  there  is  Mrs.  Torpcnhouse's 
bedroom.  It  is  Mr.  Torpcnhouse's  bedroom,  too,  but 
it  is  called  hers.  Then  there  is  his  dressing-room. 
There  is  a  spare  room  where  you  can  put  anybody,  and 
another  spare  room  where  you  can  hardly  put  anybody. 
And  there  are  places  for  the  three  servants  {Oh,  but  they 
will  not  keep  the  windows  open!)  and  there  is  a  garden 
room,  and  a  few  odd  holes  and  corners.  With  that  you 
have  an  upper  middle  class  English  house  (be  careful 
about  the  "upper")  standing  in  the  suburbs  of  a  country 
town,  run  on  (say)  £500  a  year.  And  Mr.  Torpcn- 
house's salary,  "all  in,"  is  £800,  so  there  is  a  comfort- 
able margin.  Besides,  there  are  the  accumulated  savings 
of  thirty  years,  never  touched,  the  interest  on  them  ac- 
cumulating loo. 

It  is  not  quite  a  typical  house,  for  the  Torpcnhouscs  arc  not 
exactly  typical  people  and  the  house  reflects  them:    in 

33 


34  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

particular  it  reflects  her.  In  the  drawing-room,  for  in- 
stance, you  will  find  furniture  which  could  only  have 
been  chosen  by  someone  who  liked  good  furniture  be- 
cause it  was  good.  There  are  no  wonderful  "  pieces," 
they  are  not  all  of  a  period;  but  it  seems  that  each  chair 
and  table  must  have  been  asked  to  join  the  others,  first  for 
its  own  sake  and  then  because  they  would  all  get  on  well 
together.  The  curtains  are  such  pretty  curtains  and  they 
look  neither  too  new  nor  too  old.  The  patterns  on  them 
and  on  the  wall  paper  and  the  carpet  are  modest  patterns. 
There  are  not  too  many  ornaments  about  either,  —  some 
few  things  bought  because  she  liked  them,  some  kept 
for  old  association's  sake.  Vivid  colour  the  room  does 
lack.  Possibly  to  Mrs.  Torpenhouse  life  itself  is  an 
affair  of  delicate  halftones,  of  grey  and  blue  and  mauve, 
and  white  that  is  not  loo  white.  Well,  everything 
is  spotlessly,  chastely  clean  and  well  polished  where 
polish  should  be. 

On  this  spring  morning  .  .  .  and  it  is  nearly  noon  .  .  .  while 
she,  with  garden  hat  and  gloves  and  basket  is  outdoors, 
the  square-faced,  saucer-eyed  Parlour-maid,  stiff  in 
print  frock,  shows  into  this  drawing-room  Lord  Silver- 
well.  He  is  sixty  and  his  country  riding  clothes  are 
smart.  They  are  his  armour,  for  beneath  a  quite  harm- 
less pomposity  one  may  discern  a  slightly  apologetic  soul. 
A  man,  one  would  say,-  who  has  been  thrust  willy-nilly 
into  importance.  Nor  when  we  learn  that  he  is  a 
wealthy  manufacturer,  a  self-made  man,  a  petty  prince 
of  commerce,  need  we  revise  this  judgment.  Mostly  such 
folk  are  left  wondering,  after  the  first  few  years,  how  on 
earth  they  did  get  rich.  In  their  hearts  they  are  some- 
times a  little  ashamed  of  it. 

But  the  Parlour-maid  whose  bugle  eye  does  not  discern  the 
innermost  of  things,  is  impressed  by  the  visitor,  even  a 
little  confused. 
the  maid.    Yes.    Mrs.  Torpenhouse  is  at  home,  sir  .  .  . 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  35 

\Rer  little  mouth  left  gaping,  then  closes  on  the  bigger  morsel/} 
my  lord. 

lord  silverwell.  Then  I'll  wait  for  Mr.  Torpenhouse. 
And  tell  Mrs.  Torpenhouse  that  .  .  .  Ubut  he  swallows  it 
altogether]  is  here. 

the  maid.     Yes,  my  lord. 

The  maid  is  going  as  Mrs.  Torpenhouse  arrives  through 
the  window.     The  Maid  then  does  go. 
MRS.  torpenhouse.     I  saw  you  ride  up.     Someone  took 
your  horse?    I  was  down  in  the  meadow  looking  for  mush- 
rooms. 

She  removes  the  enormous  glove  to  give  him  a  pretty, 
hardly  wrinkled  hand.  Though  she  is  not  a  tiny  woman, 
she  is  fragile,  and  there  is  about  her  both  expectation  and 
surprise,  as  if  she  felt  that  all  the  queer  things  the 
world  did  do  were  simply  nothing  to  the  queerer  things 
it  might. 
lord  silverwell.  That's  a  new  maid. 
mrs.  torpenhouse.    Yes. 

lord  silverwell.     She  knew  there  was  a  title  now,  but 
she  didn't  know  what  title  .  .  .  and  I  was  too  shy  to  tell 
her. 
mrs.  torpenhouse.    Lewis  is  at  the  Town  Hall. 
lord  silverwell.     So's  Noel.     I  said  I'd  wait  for  them 
both  here  ...  if  I  may. 

They  sit  down.    She  shows  him  a  little,  though  a  very 
little  gentle  deference. 
MRS.  torpenhouse.    Lord  Silverwell  sounds  much  nicer 
.  .  .  but  Lewis  says  the  town  was  disappointed. 

lord  silverwell.  [Enthroned  in  the  bigger  chair,  his 
voice  lakes  on,  I  regret  to  say,  a  rather  pompous  tone.'}  I 
thought  that  well  over  .  .  .  and  as  soon  as  I  could  speak  of 
my  impending  .  .  .  elevation  I  took  advice.  Cuttleton? 
D'you  think  that  ought  to  have  been  the  title?  I  owe 
the  place  much  ...  it  sounds  as  democratic  as  a  peerage 
can. 


36  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  But  it's  how  much  the  town  owes 
you,  Lewis  says,  they  were  thinking  of.  I  suppose  they'd 
have  liked  to  stand  sort  of  godfather  to  you  in  return. 

lord  silver  well.  [It's  odd:  he  can  be  pompous  and  shy 
at  the  same  time7\  Wychway  of  Cuttleton,  I  should  have 
liked.  But  to  ennoble  your  own  name  .  .  .  one  has  to  have 
done  something.  My  own  estate  .  .  .  Noel  was  born  there, 
even  though  I  bought  it  .  .  .  that's  modest  and  yet  dig- 
nified ...  I  hope.     \IIe  looks  at  her  even  a  little  appealingly.] 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Lewis  likes  it.  And  have  you  been 
to  the  House  of  Lords  yet? 

lord  silver  well.  Not  for  worlds!  I  ...  I  ...  it'll 
have  to  be  done,  though. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  But  they  don't  wear  anything  special 
there,  do  they?     Coronets  and  things? 

lord  silverwell.     Only  on  certain  occasions. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Have  you  got  yours  yet? 

lord  silverwell.     I've  ordered  one.     It's  usual. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     What's  it  made  of? 

lord  silverwell.     Silver  gilt. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [Her  eyes  twinkling.]  Now  mind  it's 
kept  clean. 

lord  silverwell.  [She  has  him  at  his  ease.]  Once  a 
week  with  the  forks  and  spoons. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.     I'm  serious. 

lord  silverwell.  When  did  Torpenhouse  go  to  the 
Town  Hall? 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  Lewis  has  been  going  and  coming 
all  day.  [She  seems,  naively,  as  she  says  it,  to  be  liking  the 
sound  of  her  husband's  name.  It  is  one  gentle  way  of  loving 
him.']     He's  very  anxious. 

lord  silverwell.     We're  all  anxious. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     He  ate  no  lunch. 

lord  silverwell.  Noel  ate  no  lunch.  I  ate  a  fair 
lunch.  But  I'm  very  anxious  .  .  .  and  whichever  way  it 
goes  now  .  .  .  most  annoyed. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  37 

Mrs.  Torpenhonse  shakes  her  head.     She  almost  seems 
to  imply  that  this  isn't  genuine  annoyance,  but  what 
she  says  is:  — 
mrs.   torpenhouse.     I  can't  take  any  real  interest   in 
politics,  so  I  just  don't  pretend. 

lord   silverwell.     [_A    certain  well-known   sort   of  vehe- 
mence growing  on  him.'}     At  the  very  best  the  majority  will 
have  been  cut  down  .  .  .  cut  to  nothing  .  .  .  cut  to  ribbons. 
In  the  simplest  way  she  tries  to  recall  him  .  .  .  to 
himself. 
mrs.  torpenhouse.     But  why  should  you  be  nervous  of 
the  House  of  Lords  when  you've  been  a  real  member  of 
Parliament  all  these  years? 

lord  silverwell.  [}Vho  conscientiously  will  not  be  re- 
called.} My  position  over  this  election  is  a  very  awkward 
one.     Did  you  read  the  papers  this  morning? 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Lewis  reads  both  the  papers  at 
breakfast. 

He  begins  to  perambulate  the  room,  stiffly,  in  his  riding 
breeches,  for  greater  emphasis. 
lord  silverwell.     Of  course  they're  sick  about  it  .  .  . 
in  spite  of  that  one  ballot  box  and  our  peculiar  hopes  on  a 
recount.     It's  been  a  safe  seat  ever  since  1886,  the  second 
time  I  held  it  for  them.     I  promised  them  it  was  a  safe  seat 
when  they  offered  me  the  barony.     And  now  if  my  own 
son's  to  lose  it  ...  !     What   could  be   more   awkward? 
"  They"  seems  to  be  not  the  public  generally,  nor  even  the 
electors  of  Culllelon,  but  some  higher,  more  mysterious 
power. 
mrs.  torpenhouse.     Yes  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  don't  under- 
stand. 

Short  of  someone  who  understands  belter  than  you  do, 
the  most  consoling  thing  is  to  meet  someone  who  doesn't 
understand  at  all.  Lord  Silverwell  is  quieted,  and, 
pausing  in  his  walk,  contemplates  her  garden  basket 
With  a  sad  but  not  unfriendly  eye. 


38  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     One  ought  to  pick  them  first  thing 
in  the  morning  .  .  .  but  I  can't  get  up  so  early  as  I  could  once. 
lord  silverwell.    ^Moodily:   perhaps  he  thinks  of  mush- 
room picking  as  a  boyJJ    We  grow  them  in  a  cellar. 
Mrs.  Torpenhouse'' 's  face  lights  up. 
mrs.  torpenhouse.     There's  Lewis  putting  his   stick  in 
the  umbrella  stand. 

But  it  is  Noel  Wychway  who  comes  in.  The  Honour- 
able Noel  Wychway,  in  full  etiquette  he  is,  but  only 
for  the  past  three  weeks,  and  he  will  always  drop  that 
silly  snobbish-sounding  prefix  when  he  can.  noel  is 
thirty  or  a  little  more.  He  is  an  example  of  what  the 
good  things  of  life,  lavishly  given,  from  good  food  to  good 
education,  can  do  for  any  man.  They  can  do  much 
and  he  shows  it.  They  cannot  do  more,  and  he,  before 
all  people,  knows  it.  He  greets  Mrs.  Torpenhouse 
punctiliously,  and  then,  amusedly  grim,  faces  his  father, 
who  at  sight  of  him  goes  grimly  glum. 
noel.     How  d'y  do,  Mrs.  Torpenhouse? 

LORD   SILVERWELL.      Well,   Noel? 

noel.     One! 

lord  silverwell.    Against   you? 

noel.     Yes. 

lord  silverwell.  [With  some  solemnity  7\  I'm  damned! 
Mrs.  Torpenhouse  will  excuse  me. 

noel.  It's  not  your  fault,  father  .  .  .  and  I'm  damned. 
Mr.  Torpenhouse  comes  in.  Lord  Silverwell  pounces  on 
him. 

lord  silverwell.  Lewis,  can  we  petition?  One  can 
always  prove  bribery,  if  one  wants  to. 

noel.     No  ...  let  it  be. 

lord  silverwell.  [Protestant:  pathetic.^  But  it  leaves 
me  in  such  an   impossibly   awkward  position. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Will  you  have  some  tea? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Yes,  Mary. 

lord  silverwell.    Thank  you. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  39 

noel.  {As  he  sits  and  stretches:  a  man  who  knows  the  worst."] 
By  one  vote,  mind  you!  Two  hundred  and  twenty-five  in 
that  extra  box  .  .  .  We  were  fifteen  to  the  good  last  night, 
not  fourteen.  ...  I  wish  the  fool  had  never  found  it.  One 
vote! ! 

lord  silverwell.  {With  a  sudden  snap.]  I  wish  I 
knew  whose  vote. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  And  have  you  really  not  got  in  for 
good  and  all? 

MR.  torpenhouse.     {Who  has  hovered  near  the  door.]     I'll 
tell  .  .  .  what  is  her  name? 
mrs.  torpenhouse.     Kate. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  .  .  .  to  bring  tea.  I  must  wash  .  .  . 
that  committee  room  table  .  .  . 

He  disappears.     A  man  past  sixty;  not  handsome,  not 
even  distinguished.     But  there  is  something  in  his  face, 
a  touch  of  enthusiasm,  which  would  mark  him  out  from 
common  men.     There  is  a  touch  of  music  in  his  voice, 
a  falling  cadence  which  lets  you  know  that  sometimes 
his  thoughts  are  on  far -of  things.     One    understands 
how  a  woman  woidd  marry  him.     At  this  moment  the 
woman  who  did  marry  him  says  — 
mrs.  torpenhouse.     Lewis  is  very  upset. 
lord  silverwell.    {With  sudden  violence^]    Braxted  let 
us  down.     Have  you  seen  his  letter? 
noel.     No  .  .  .  confound  his  letter. 
lord  silverwell.     Lewis  has  it.     {Then  he  gets  up  again, 
to  resume  his  perambulating  vehemence]     That   shows  you 
the  personal  attention  one  ought  to  pay  to  a  small  constitu- 
ency.    I  did  thirty  years  ago.     I  spent  a  solid  three  years 
tackling  every  man  in  the  place.    Then  I  got  careless.  .  .  . 
But  that  shouldn't  have  made  you  careless.    No,  it's  not  your 
fault  ...  I  daresay  Lewis  remembers  ...  he  should  have 
put  you  in  the  way  of  it. 

noel.  Dash  it  .  .  .  I've  had  three  weeks  .  .  .  not  much 
more. 


40  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

lord  silverwell.  One  vote !  I  suspect  Braxted.  If 
Braxted  had  voted  straight  .  .  .  and  you'd  been  elected 
by  the  Mayor  .  .  .  that  would  have  been  bad  enough  .  .  . 
a  casting  vote! 

noel.  Well  .  .  .  Braxted  came  down  for  the  re-count 
.  .  .  and  he  told  me  .  .  .  not  that  he  need  have  told  me  .  .  . 
that  out  of  personal  regard  for  you  ...  no  kindness  to 
me  at  all  .  .  .  he  deliberately  spoiled  his  voting  paper  .  .  . 
so  there. 

lord  silverwell.  ^With  one  sweeping  gesture  rejecting 
Braxted.}  I  don't  believe  him.  He  went  against  you. 
You  read  his  letter? 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [In  her  soft  voice.'}  Lewis  thinks 
Mr.  Braxted  is  far  too  violent  to  mean  anything  he  says. 

Then  comes  a  paternal-filial  scrap.     Quite  good-natured; 
the  usual  happy  family  thing. 

lord  silverwell.     I  never  liked  your  Address. 

noel.     You  didn't  expect  me  to  copy  your  Address. 

lord  silverwell.     My  Address  got  me  in  last  January. 

noel.  You  got  in  last  January  because  you'd  always 
got  in. 

lord  silverwell.     I'm  not  blaming  you. 
The  maid  arrives  with  tea. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Here's  tea  ...  we  shall  all  feel 
better  then. 

lord  silverwell.  [Forgivingly.}  Your  meetings  were 
excellent  .  .  .  Lewis  assures  me. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     And  you  never  went  to  one  of  them? 

lord  silverwell.  A  Peer  of  the  Realm  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  . 
[He  has  to  take  breath  after  it.}  may  take  no  part  in  an  elec- 
tion. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Not  even  to  help  his  own  son! 
That  isn't  natural,  is  it? 

She  begins  to  administer  tea;  a  priestess  of  consolation. 
Torpenhouse  comes  back.  But  he  is  still  troubled  and 
the  trouble  seems  deep  in  him.    He  takes  a  chair  apart. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  41 

lord  silverwell     Lord  Mount-Torby  may  have  been 
too  radical  for  them. 

noel.     Nobody  else  was  radical  enough. 

lord  silverwell.  He  speaks  well.  Got  that  letter  of 
Braxted's,  Lewis? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  tore  it  up  ...  I  didn't  know  you 
wanted  it. 

lord  silverwell.  There  may  have  been  a  dozen  other 
men  who  did  as  he  said  he'd  do.  .  .  . 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Spoilt  his  paper  on  purpose  ...  he 
told  us.  .  .  . 

noel.  [Excusably  irritable  in  defeat  under  his  careless 
mask.'}     When  he  knew  we'd  lost! 

lord  silverwell.  If  he  says  so,  I  daresay  he  did.  With 
all  his  faults  he's  a  feeling  fellow. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [Thankful  to  hear  a  soft  word/] 
Oh,  yes. 

lord  silverwell.  If  a  dozen  voted  Tory  because  you 
weren't  Radical  enough  for  'em  .  .  .  silly  fools!  .  .  .  and 
hadn't  the  honesty  to  tell  you  so  as  Braxted  told  you, 
still  a  hundred  men  calling  themselves  Tories  must  have 
gone  for  you  because  you're  .  .  .  because  you  were.  .  .  . 

noel.     Your  son! 

lord  silverwell.  [With  a  vicious  snap:  he  is  rapidly 
evolving  some  real  feelings  about  this  affair.']  Well  .  .  .  not 
a  smooth-headed  carpet-bagger  of  a  Conservative  penny-a- 
lining barrister,  whatever  else  you  are!  I'm  sorry  to  seem 
upset,  dear  Mrs.  Torpenhouse.  .  .  . 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Give  Lord  Silverwell  his  tea,  Lewis. 

lord  silverwell.  .  .  .  But  my  position  with  the  Party 
Whips  is  ...  I  do  assure  you  ...  a  most  impossibly 
awkward  one.  [And  now  we  can  place  the  mysterious 
"They".] 

noel.  It's  no  use,  father  .  .  .  yes,  sugar,  please  .  .  . 
we  thought  we  knew  the  town  and  every  man's  politics  in  it. 
Well  ...  we  didn't.     I  shan't  stand  again. 


42  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 


MRS.  torpenhouse.  [As  she  ministers  tea  to  poor  Noel.^ 
Don't  say  that. 

lord  silverwell.  [With  a  sudden  serious  rectitude.~} 
Lewis,  I  hope  all  the  men  at  the  works  voted  straight.  I 
don't  mean  those  whose  opinions  we  know.  There  are 
Tories  and  Socialists  .  .  .  and  I've  never  attempted  to 
penalize  a  man  for  his  political  opinions.  But  all  those  that 
aren't  anything  in  particular.  If  I  didn't  think  they'd 
voted  like  one  man  for  you,  Noel,  I  ...  I  should  be  very 
deeply  hurt. 

noel.  You'd  have  won  the  seat  yourself,  Torpenhouse. 
Torpenhouse  gives  him  a  quite  scared  look. 

MR.  TORPENHOUSE.      No. 

noel.  Well,  you've  been  a  first-rate  chairman  of  Com- 
mittee, and  I'm  sorry  I've  let  you  all  down. 

lord  silverwell.  [As  he  stirs  his  tea.J  If  Noel  won't 
stand  again  I  really  think  you'd  better,  Lewis. 

noel.     [In  settled  relief. 2     I  won't. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [With  that  same  almost  scared  look^J 
I  couldn't. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Oh,  Lewis! 

lord  silverwell.     Yes  .  .  .  why  not? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  couldn't  .  .  .  afford  it. 

lord  silverwell.  Now  I  know  what  you  can  afford  and 
what  you  can't. 

noel.     [Encouragingly. .]     You  stand. 

mr.   torpenhouse.     There  are   reasons  why  I  couldn't. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Lewis,  I  think  it'd  be  nice  for  you  to 
stand  ...  if  only  one  felt  sure  you  wouldn't  be  elected. 
The  charming  inconsequence  of  this  lets   Torpenhouse 
relax  to  saying  genially  .  .  . 

mr.  torpenhouse.     My  dear  Mary,  don't  talk  nonsense. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  [She  smiles  gravely  at  him7\  That 
may  sound  silly  .  .  .  but  it  isn't. 

lord  silverwell.  [With  some  decision^]  Lewis,  our 
factory  has  made  Cuttleton  what  it  is,  and  my  estate  is  the 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  43 

biggest  in  the  County  ...  no  credit  to  me,  of  course,  but 
that's  so.  If  I  can't  any  longer  sit  for  the  place  and  Noel 
really  means  now  to  go  and  work  up  the  South  American 
branch  .  .  . 

noel.     For  a  couple  of  years. 

lord  silverwell.  \Truly  a  patron  and  a  peer.]  .  .  .  who 
else  should  have  the  seat  but  you?  You're  my  man  of 
business  .  .  .  you're  more  than  that  by  a  long  way. 
Confound  it  all,  if  it  had  been  your  money  instead  of  mine 
in  the  beginning  you'd  be  Lord  Something  or  other  now,  and 
I  should  be  .  .  .  ! !  And  I  strongly  suspect  Cuttleton 
knows  it  too. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  %As  she  glows  with  gentle  pride.'] 
Lewis,  when  you're  asked  like  that  I'm  sure  you  ought  to, 
just  to  show  people  that  it's  true  .  .  .  some  of  it  ...  of 
course,  only  some.  But  if  it  comes  to  being  elected  and 
spending  all  your  time  in  that  draughty  stuffy  House  of 
Commons  we  came  to  see  you  in,  Sir  Alfred  .  .  .  there,  how 
one  does  slip  back!  .  .  .  well,  his  health  wouldn't  stand 
that.     And  then  of  course  I  should  have  to  interfere. 

Torpenhouse  bows  his  head  and  his  voice  seems  to  come 
from  rather  far  away. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I'm  too  old.     I  wish  I  weren't. 

lord  silverwell.     We  must  get  the  seat  back. 

noel.  Don't  be  depressed  about  my  losing  it,  Torpen- 
house. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  wish  I  could  begin  my  life  over 
again.     I'm   very  unhappy  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

With  no  more  warning  he  bursts  into  tears  and  sits 
there  crying  like  a  child.  The  rest  of  them  are  really 
alarmed. 

lord  silverwell.     My  dear  Lewis! 

noel.  My  dear  Torpenhouse  ...  for  heaven's  sake! 
It  hasn't  been  your  fault. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Oh,  Lewis,  I  knew  the  strain'd  be 
too  much  for  you.     He's  had  nothing  to  eat  to-day. 


44  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

MR.  torpenhouse.     It's  not    the   strain.     I'm  all  right. 
Let  me  alone. 

He  extricates  himself  from   their  petting;    moves  to  a 

chair  further    apart  still;    turns    away,  his  shoulders 

heaving.     Lord  Silverwell  is  puzzled  and  tactful. 

lord   silverwell.     Elections  .  .  .  very  wearing  things. 

We'll  talk  of  something  else.     Give  me  some  more  tea,  my 

dear  lady. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     He's  not  strong. 

Suddenly    Torpenhouse    turns    back.     There    are    un- 
ashamed tears  on  his  cheeks;    one  quite  ridiculously 
smears  his  nose.     But  his  face  is  vivid  and  his  eyes  and 
his  voice  are  very  steady  indeed. 
mr.  torpenhouse.     Wychway! 
noel.    Yes. 

mr.    torpenhouse.     No,  no  .  .  .  your  father  .  .  .  Lord 
Silverwell ...  I  want  to  call  you  by  your  old  name.  .  .  . 
lord  silverwell.    ^Encouragingly,  as  a  nurse  to  a  childJ} 
So  you  shall. 

mk.  torpenhouse.     I  have  been  a  pillar  of  Liberalism  in 
this  town  for  thirty  years  .  .  .  haven't  I? 
lord  silverwell.     All  honour  to  you. 
MR.  torpenhouse.     Be  sure  your  sin  will  find  you  out. 
His  voice  rings  aloud.     But  then  his  knees  seem  to  give 
way  and  he  sits  of  a  heap  gaping  at  them.     Lord  Silver- 
well  gapes  in  return.     Noel  is  puzzled.     Mrs.  Torpen- 
house soothes  him  .  .  .  what  she  says  is  no  matter  .  .  . 
in  her  soft  way. 
MRS.  torpenhouse.     My  dear,  you're  very  excited. 
NOEL.     \Trying  ironic  humour  as  a  tonic.^     Well,  it  has 
at  last  .  .  .  but  only  by  one  vote. 

Emotion   seizes   torpenhouse    again,    but   this   time 
rebellious,  incoherent. 
MR.     torpenhouse.     To-day?     Ah!  .  .  .  but     until     to- 
day .  .  .  the     day    of    triumph!     Oh,    it's    very    difficult! 
This  is  my  hour! ! 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  45 


lord  silverwell.     My  dear  old  chap,  you're  not  well. 
MRS.  torpenhouse.     Oh,  Lewis  ...  do  sit  down. 
mr.  torpenhouse.     Mary,  I  shall  confess  all  .  .  .  with 
pride  ...  oh,  with  such  pride.     Noel  .  .  .  you  have  some 
right  to  complain. 

noel.  Not  at  all  .  .  .  take  it  easy  .  .  .  better  by  your- 
self.    See  you  to-morrow. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  No;  I  mayn't  have  the  courage. 
Noel  .  .  .  you're  a  good  fellow.  ...  In  a  sense  it  never 
mattered  with  your  father  .  .  .  and  even  now  he  won't 
understand.     Boys  together! 

He  is  standing,  waving  his  arms  at  them.     He  looks 
very  queer  indeed. 
lord  silverwell.     Of  course  we  were! 
MRS.  torpenhouse.    [fioing  to  him,  her  tears  starling  nowP\ 
Oh,  .  .  .  Lewis! 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Don't  hold  me!  Don't  cry,  Mary. 
It  was  my  vote. 

There  is  a  silence:   and  the  two  other  men  look  at  what 
he  has  said  {in  a  sense)  as  they  might  at  some  queer 
object  that  had  marvellously  dropped  through  the  ceil- 
ing. 
noel.     What  d'you  mean? 

lord  silverwell.  My  dear  Lewis  .  .  .  what  do  you 
mean? 

Torpenhouse   is  attacking   them   now.     He  shakes  his 
fist. 
mr.  torpenhouse.      I   needn't    have   done    it.      Couldn't 
I  have  spoiled  my  paper?      The  Mayor  would  have  voted 
you  in.      No,  no! 

lord  silverwell.  Do  you  mean  you  voted  the  wrong 
way  by  mistake  yesterday? 

noel.  \JIis  eyebrows  askew."}  I  don't  think  that's  what 
you  mean,  is  it? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  \_Erccl,  heroic^  As  a  Tory  I  have 
never  fully  approved  of  the  secrecy  of  the  ballot.  .  .  . 


46  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

lord  silverwell.  [With  a  wild  effort  to  capture  the  situa- 
tional Lewis,  if  you're  ill  let  your  wife  send  for  the  doctor. 
If  you're  not,  let's  understand  what  it  is  you're  trying  to 
say  .  .  .  and  stop  talking  nonsense. 

But  Torpcnhouse  only  looks  at  him  now  in  the  kindest 
way  and  shakes  his  head. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Wychway,  we  have  been  good  friends. 
I  have  served  you  faithfully  ...  I  don't  regret  that.  Noel, 
I  am  quite  calm  now  and  I  think  it  my  duty,  as  chairman  of 
your  committee,  to  inform  you  that  yesterday  I  deliberately 
voted  against  you. 

lord  silverwell.     You're  not  serious. 

mr.  torpenhouse.    My  vote  was  serious. 

noel.    [Grimly.}    It  was. 

lord  silverwell.  [To  the  listening  earth;  and  the  po- 
litical heavens  as  well.'}     But  why? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     For  conscience'  sake. 

lord  silverwell.  {With  a  certain  direct  dignity;  after 
all,  he  is  the  man's  chief.}     Lewis,  explain  yourself. 

mr.  torpenhouse.    It  isn't  easy. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Lewis,  don't  you  think  you'd  better 
go  and  lie  down? 

lord  silverwell.  [_Tartly.2  No,  I  don't  think  he  had. 
Torpenhouse  now  faces  his  friend  and  the  situation 
very  squarely. 

mr.   torpenhouse.      Lord  Silverwell  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.  Don't  call  me  that.  I  mean,  don't 
say  it  in  that  tone.  Hang  it,  man,  you  queered  the  elec- 
tion! 

mr.  torpenhouse.  You  probably  have  never  known 
what  a  moral  difficulty  was. 

lord  silverwell.     Haven't  I?     Why  haven't  I,  pray? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Well,  you've  been  so  successful.  And 
look  at  the  money  you've  made.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.     I  have  made  it  honestly. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     You  see?     I  said  so. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  47 

noel.  [Cutting  in  coolly;  sharply  a  little,  though."]  But 
what  have  I  done  to  land  you  in  such  a  queer  dilemma? 

MR:  torpenhouse.  [With  perfect  simplicity.]  Personally 
I  am  so  sorry,  Noel.  .  .  . 

noel.  No,  believe  me,  Torpenhouse,  personally  I'm  not 
very  much  annoyed  .  .  .  though  I  could  easily  pretend  to 
be.     And  politically  I'm  quite  excited. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Thank  you. 

noel.  You  disapproved  of  my  special  little  brand  of 
opinion?  Well,  so  did  my  father.  He  thought  my  Address 
horrid.      It  was  lucky  he'd  lost  his  vote. 

lord  silverwell.      Don't  joke  about  this,  Noel. 

noel.  But  I  think  we'd  better.  [For  an  air  of  extreme 
discomfort  is  gradually  settling  on  them  all.]  Come  on,  some- 
body must  explain.  You  felt  for  the  party's  sake,  that  you 
couldn't  withdraw  from  the  chairmanship  ...  so  you  paid 
me  out  privately.      I  quite  understand. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [Almost  to  himself  it  seems.]  Oh  .  .  . 
but  I'm  punished. 

lord  silverwell.  Punished!  Noel's  punished.  Let  me 
tell  you,  Torpenhouse,  that  you  have  behaved  dishonourably. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [With  proper  decorum,  if  they  are 
to  disgrace  themselves.]     Lewis  .  .  .  shall  I  go? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [Firmly.]  I  have.  But  you  don't 
know  how  ...  or  begin  to. 

lord  silverwell.      Then  we'll  hear  the  worst,  please. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [Glowing  at  him  now.]  I  am  a  Poli- 
tician. 

noel.  So  we  find.  No  ...  I  beg  your  pardon.  [Noel's 
nerves  are  really  a  little  strained  and  irony  is  his  only  vent 
for  them.] 

mr.  torpenhouse.  A  serious  politician.  For  thirty  years. 
I  have  voted  straight.     That  at  least  is  a  comfort. 

lord  silverwell.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  all  these 
years  you  have  been  voting  against  me? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Yes,  of  course. 


48  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

lord  silverwell.  And  been  Chairman  of  my  Com- 
mittee! 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Well,  as  chairman  of  your  committee 
.  .  .  and  your  man  of  business  ...  I  always  got  you  in. 
What  are  you  grumbling  at? 

lord  silverwell.     This  is  unbelievable! 

noel.  No.  Get  it  all  clear,  Torpenhouse  .  .  .  and  you'll 
feel  better. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Yesterday  it  was  sheer  force  of  habit, 
Noel,  nothing  else.  I  felt  so  sure  you  were  safe  ...  by  a 
hundred  or  two  at  least.  I  never  stopped  to  think.  And 
now,  at  last,  when  I'd  given  up  all  hope  of  this  damned 
constituency  ever  doing  the  right  thing  ...  to  beat  you  .  .  . 
to  have  my  better  nature  triumph  in  spite  of  itself!  And  by 
my  own  single  vote! !  Mary,  God  has  been  very  merciful 
to  me. 

Caught  in  this  sudden  whirlpool  of  feeling  and  thought, 
he  almost  breaks  down  again. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  Oh,  hush,  Lewis,  don't  say  things 
like  that. 

lord  silverwell.  Torpenhouse,  this  is  very  serious. 
I've  always  known  there  was  a  kink  in  you.  You've  had 
strange  tastes  ...  in  books  and  things  like  that.  But  I 
never  thought  it  was  a  moral  kink. 

noel.  My  dear  father,  this  needs  understanding.  Don't 
lumber  us  up  with  injured  feelings. 

lord  silverwell.  Noel,  please  stop  treating  me  as  if 
I  were  a  fool.  If  ever  you  have  to  look  back  on  thirty  years 
of  a  friend's  deception  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  it's  a  harsh  word, 
but  I  cannot  take  this  lightly. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  \_Gently7\  My  friend,  I've  never 
taken  it  lightly,  if  that's  any  satisfaction  to  you.  You  see, 
you  haven't  a  conscience.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.  \Exploding?\  I  will  not  be  talked  to 
like  this.  No  moral  difficulties  .  .  .  lumbered  up  with 
feelings  ...  no  conscience! 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  49 


MR.  torpenhouse.  Yes,  but  I  hadn't  finished.  A  tor- 
menting conscience,  like  mine. 

lord  silverwell.     Can  you  wonder! 

MR.  torpenhouse.  I  have  wondered  all  my  life  why  Spirits 
should  possess  us. 

lord  silverwell.  \\His  eyes  inclined  to  bolt;  but  he  tries 
the  heavily  ironic,  a  leaf  from  Noel's  book.']  Dare  I  say, 
Keep  to  the  point?  Dare  I  hint  that  perhaps  you  don't 
know  either  what  you're  talking  about?  With  Noel  looking 
at  me?    No! 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Why  could  I  give  my  body  and  mind 
to  working  up  the  boot  trade  for  you  .  .  .  and  never  my 
soul  at  all? 

lord  silverwell.  I  never  asked  for  it.  I've  never 
given  my  soul  to  the  boot  trade. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     You  have. 

lord  silverwell.     I  have  not. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Why,  whatever  else  has  made  it? 
My  disinterested  business  ability!  Is  that  the  price  of  suc- 
cess the  god  of  this  world  asks? 

lord  silverwell.     We  will  not  argue  that. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Dear  Lewis,  what  did  you  want  to 
give  your  soul  to? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Dear  Mary,  I've  never  discovered. 
That's  why  I'm  a  failure  at  sixty-three.  {Then  to  his  old 
friend.]  I  made  you  a  Liberal.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.  You  did  not  make  me  a  Liberal.  [_It 
is  a  relief  to  him  to  scrap.] 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  did.  It  was  wrong  of  me,  but  I 
did  it  deliberately.  For  it  seemed  the  only  thing  you  could 
be. 

lord  silverwell.  I  was  always  a  Liberal.  You  helped 
put  me  into  Parliament.  I've  said  so  .  .  .  and  thanked 
you,  more  than  once. 

mr.  torpenhouse.    You  were  a  voter.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.    Well,  I  voted  Liberal  so  .  .  . 


50  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

mr.  torpenhouse.  You  voted  any  way.  \_And  then 
with  sudden  extraordinary  fire?]  Don't  interrupt  me  when  for 
once  in  my  life  I'm  saying  something  serious  about  myself. 

lord  silverwell.  \Jn  cheerful  amazement?]  Oh,  go  on! 
I'm  the  culprit  here,  I  suppose. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  was  a  Tory.  That  meant  something 
to  me.     It  was  a  faith  ...  a  creed! 

lord  silverwell.     Then  you  could  have  stuck  to  it. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  was  very  fond  of  you. 

lord  silverwell.  I  should  have  appreciated  your  inde- 
pendence of  spirit. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Would  you?  I  wonder.  You're 
such  a  healthy  man,  Wychway,  and  everything  agrees  with 
you  .  .  .  and  you  do  like  people  to  agree  with  you  too. 
For  Heaven  has  made  you  yourself  as  nearly  all  of  a  piece 
as  possible.  It  takes  perfect  machinery  to  do  that  .  .  . 
with  our  boots,  doesn't  it?  But  I'm  a  cobbled  bit  of  goods. 
I've  always  known  it.  And  that  has  made  me  an  unhappy 
man  all  my  life. 

Mrs.    Torpenhouse   sits   there,  forgotten.     At  this  her 
lip  quivers. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Oh,  Lewis! 

■Torpenhouse    has   not  forgotten    her.     He    turns    and 
says  with  real  chivalry,  though  whimsy  follows  close.  .  .  . 

MR.  torpenhouse.  I  reverence  my  life  with  you,  my 
dear  .  .  .  and  thanks  to  the-  beauty  that's  in  you  ...  it 
has  grown  into  being  a  good  habit  instead  of  a  bad  one.  But 
it's  a  habit,  Mary,  now. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  \_Simply7\  Do  you  remember  saying 
to  me  years  ago  when  you'd  had  bronchitis  .  .  .  and  be- 
fore the  nurse  too  .  .  .  that  there  were  things  about  you 
I  must  never  want  to  understand? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  ^Quaintly.]  Yes  .  .  .  before  the 
nurse! 

mes.  torpenhouse.  And  I  went  away  and  I  cried  and 
cried. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  51 

MR.    torpenhouse.     [Apostrophising   himself?]     Brute! 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  And  then  I  thought:  Well,  it's  only 
like  having  a  husband  and  a  visitor  in  one.  And  I  haven't 
minded  a  bit;  though  I've  never  dared  say  so  till  now  .  .  . 
when  we're  all  old  people  .  .  .  except  Noel. 

noel.     {[Loving  her;   who  could  help  it!]     Noel  won't  tell. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  [Stoutly.]  I  don't  feel  old.  And 
sometimes  I  feel  wicked.  I'm  tempted  to  go  kissing  pretty 
girls.  And  if  it  wasn't  they'd  dislike  it  .  .  .  for  I'm  not 
much  to  look  at  ...  I'm  not  sure  I  hadn't  better  kiss  one 
and  have  done  with  it. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [Ever  so  mischievously.]  You  may 
try,  if  you'll  tell  me  whether  she  lets  you. 

Torpenhouse,    quite    master    of    himself    now,    jovial 
actually.  .  .  . 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Well  .  .  .  and  what  are  you  thinking 
of,  old  Wychway? 

lord  silverwell.  [In  the  spirit  of  it.]  You  are!  A 
Tory  at  heart  ...  a  true  Tory,  by  Jove! 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Why,  we're  all  wrapped  in  hypoc- 
risies, fold  on  fold!  So  shall  I  set  up  now  as  a  libertine 
country  squire?  I  resign  my  place  with  you,  of  course, 
Wychway. 

lord  silverwell.  [Attacked  thus  in  quite  a  new  place.] 
What? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Don't  you  want  me  to? 

lord  silverwell.  Must  you  ?  I  suppose  you  must. 
Dear  me,  this  is  very  vexing. 

noel.     No,  no! 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Thirty  years'  heartless  deception! 

lord  silverwell.     Well,  I  must  be  allowed  to  feel  it. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  That  isn't  the  reason.  I  want  to 
resign. 

lord  silverwell.  You  w  an  t  to!  No,  really  I  think  that 
is  too  bad.  Just  when  I've  taken  the  peerage  and  Noel's 
going  away.    Look  here:  what  you  have  done  is  unforgivable. 


52  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

But  after  all  politics  are  only  politics,  and  now,  by  Jove, 
instead  of  asking  me  to  forgive  you,  you  make  matters  worse 
by  resigning.  We  can't  do  without  you,  and  you  know  it. 
Put  your  foot  down,  Mrs.  Torpenhouse.  Whatever  else 
has  happened  .  .  .  why  cap  it  by  trying  to  break  up  the 
whole  system  of  things  like  this?  [He  finishes  breathless,  but 
justified^] 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  [With  judgment/]  Lewis  must  stop 
working  sometime. 

lord  silverwell.  I  think  at  least  it  was  for  me  to 
object  to  your  remaining. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [With  meaning  ...  3  But  I  know 
you  won't  .  .  .  you  see. 

lord  silverwell.  [ .  .  .  which  is  utterly  missed.']  No, 
I  am  prepared  to  face  a  great  deal  for  your  sake.  I  am 
stupid  enough  to  be  very  fond  of  you,  Lewis.  .  .  . 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Bless  you. 

lord  silverwell.  [Piling  it  on,  quite  sincerely.]  I 
thought  we  had  been  something  more  than  master  and  .  .  . 
agent.  I  thought  we  had  been  friends.  If  I  have  been 
mistaken.  .  .  . 

mr.  torpenhouse.     You've  not  been  mistaken. 

noel.  [Who  mistrusts  these  competing  emotions.]  What  is 
it  you're  prepared  to  face,  father? 

lord  silverwell.  [Assuming  importance.]  Well,  I  have 
been  thinking  as  well  as  one  could  in  these  trying  circum- 
stances.    Must  the  whole  town  know  of  this? 

noel.     [Agape].     Certainly  not. 

lord  silverwell.  Then  ought  we  to  tell  each  member 
of  the  Committee  ...  in  confidence? 

noel.     That  comes  to  the  same  thing,  doesn't  it? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  [A  little  shamefaced  now.]  I  don't 
mind  hanging  on  as  chairman  for  a  bit  .  .  .  say,  till  the 
next  election's  in  sight. 

lord  silverwell.     No,  that  seems  to  me  a  little  immoral. 

noel.     What's  worrying  you,  father? 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  53 

lord  silverwell.  For  conscience'  sake,  ought  there  not 
to  be  some  sort  of  public  announcement  ? 

noel".  [With  the  utmost  impatience.'}  What  on  earth 
good  will  that  do? 

lord  silverwell.  [Parental;  fines  pirited7\  It  will  be 
very  painful  to  me  .  .  .  very  galling.  I  may  be  made  to 
appear  almost  ridiculous.  But  it  is  of  Lewis  I  have  been 
thinking.  When  in  doubt,  make  a  clean  breast  of  things. 
It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  a  public  matter.  So  somebody 
should  be  told.  It  may  not  so  much  matter  who  .  .  .  and 
not  the  whole  truth  perhaps.  .  .  . 

MR.  torpenhouse.     [Curtly.'}    I  shall  tell  nobody  else. 

lord  silverwell.  That  might  perhaps  relieve  my  mind, 
Lewis,  but  are  you  sure  that  on  general  principles  you  are 
not  wrong? 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Look  here!  Is  the  ballot  secret  .  .  . 
or  is  it  not? 

lord  silverwell.  That  seems  to  me  hardly  a  subject 
at  the  moment  .  .  .  either  for  joke  or  argument. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Wychway,  you're  so  trying  when 
you're  pompous. 

lord  silverwell.     I  am  not  pompous. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  I  beg  your  pardon  ...  I  shouldn't 
have  said  it. 

lord  silverwell.  Nonsense  .  .  .  you  know  you  can 
say  what  you  like  to  me  .  .  .  you  always  have.  But 
you've  no  right  to  tell  me  I'm  pompous. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Who  wants  to  stand  in  a  white  sheet 
with  his  real  and  sham  opinions  hung  round  him?  Confound 
it  .  .  .  set  me  the  example.  Withdraw  your  poster  that 
Wychway's  boots  are  the  best.  Advertise  what  we  really 
think  of  them. 

lord  silverwell.    Wychway's  boots  are  the  best. 

MR.  torpenhouse.    Then  why  don't  you  wear  'em? 

lord  silverwell.  If  we  must  go  into  details  .  .  .  be- 
cause one  of  my  feet  is  larger  than  the  other  and  it  would  be 


54  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

absurdly  extravagant  to  have  a  special  pattern  manufactured. 
Wychway's  boots  are  the  best  that  can  be  made  in  the  cir- 
cumstances for  the  price,  and  any  sensible  man  reading  the 
advertisement  reads  that  into  it. 

noel.  I've  been  wearing  'em  at  all  our  meetings  ...  on 
the  platform  .  .  .  and  sticking  'em  well  out.  But  I  don't 
like  the  shape. 

lord  silverwell.  My  dear  Noel,  we  have  twenty-four 
different  shapes. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I've  worn  them  for  thirty  years. 
And  whenever  the  spring  weather  comes  they  hurt  me  .  .  . 
not  at  other  times. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  I  have  tried  my  best  to  wear  them 
.  .  .  but  you  don't  make  a  point  of  ladies'  shoes,  do  you? 

lord  silverwell.  No.  Women,  my  dear  Mrs.  Tor- 
penhouse .  .  .  who  purchase  our  class  of  goods,  seem  to 
prefer  to  pay  seven  and  six  or  ten  and  six  for  a  thoroughly 
showy,  shoddy  article.  We  make  a  few  ...  to  satisfy  our 
retailers,  but  I  have  always  given  instructions  for  that  line 
never  to  be  ...  as  we  say  .  .  .  pressed.  We  are  wandering 
hopelessly  from  the  subject. 

noel.  There's  one  supreme  happiness  I  could  get  out 
of  this  situation.  Torpenhouse  .  .  .  stand  at  the  next  elec- 
tion on  the  other  side  .  .  .  your  right  side.  By  Jove  .  .  . 
if  you  will  I'll  come  back  and  fight  you  and  watch  you  beat 
me. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Noel  .  .  .  don't  mock  me. 

noel.     I'm  serious. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  You're  not  sixty-three.  You've  not 
wasted  your  life. 

lord  silverwell.    ^Sharply.*}    In  my  service? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  ^As  sharply  .  .  .  throwing  it  back  J] 
Yes. 

lord  silverwell.  Torpenhouse,  you'd  better  stop. 
Noel,  we'd  better  go.  You're  beginning  to  say  things 
you'll  be  sorry  for. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  55 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Not  till  to-morrow  .  .  .  when  you'll 
have  forgotten  them. 

lord  '  silverwell.  Thank  you.  Of  all  the  queer  sug- 
gestions you  have  made  this  afternoon  .  .  .  that  seems  to 
me  quite  the  queerest.  I  think  I  may  say  without  exaggera- 
tion ...  I  am  doing  my  best  not  to  be  pompous  .  .  .  that 
this  unhappy  business  will  leave  its  mark  on  me. 

MR.  torpenhouse.     What  sort  of  a  mark? 

lord  silverwell.  Had  we  not  better  let  things  rest  for 
the  moment?     We  are  all  very  upset. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  a 
little,  dear  old  friend,  how  the  whole  thing  happened.  All  it 
ever  meant  to  you  and  this  sweating  little  town  of  yours 
to  have  a  seat  in  Parliament  and  you  sitting  in  it  was  as  far 
from  the  statesmanship  I'd  kneel  and  pray  for  as  the  rag 
heap  on  which  his  poem  will  be  printed  is  from  the  soul  of 
the  man  who  sings  it.  I've  watched  you  in  Parliament 
shout  and  chatter  about  this  measure  and  that  .  .  .  yes,  and 
I've  shouted  and  chattered  outside  Parliament  too  ...  it 
has  been  so  easy  .  .  .  taking  our  tune  from  those  worthy 
people  who  are  given  the  country  to  govern  and  kindly 
give  us  something  to  chatter  and  shout  for  while  they're 
so  busy-bodily  doing  it.  From  one  decade  to  another  .  .  . 
the  same  old  tune  .  .  .  different  words  to  it.  It  really 
didn't  seem  to  me  that  it  could  hurt  England  at  all  to  have 
you  in  Parliament.  .  .  .  Honestly,  I  don't  think  it  ever 
has.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.     Thank  you. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Oh,  if  having  you  and  five  or  six 
hundred  men  like  you  talking  there  could  hurt  her  .  .  .  well, 
only  by  God's  mercy  could  she  be  saved  anyhow!  And  I 
owed  so  much  to  you,  Wychway,  in  those  old  days  .  .  . 
and  I  do  now  .  .  .  that  I  felt  I  owed  it  to  you  first  of  all 
just  to  be  silent  when  they  asked  you  to  stand.  I  dug  a  pit 
for  myself  then.  I  think  if  we'd  waited  a  few  years  the 
other  side  might  have  asked  you  too. 


56  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

lord  silverwell.     I  should  have  refused. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Why?  We  could  have  kept  you 
unattached.  Of  course  I  meant  at  first  to  keep  out  of  the 
vile  business  altogether.  But  that  was  no  use.  You 
wouldn't  even  try  to  get  on  without  me.  I  wondered  if 
I  could  make  you  a  Tory.  But  that  didn't  do.  You 
hadn't  the  stamina  or  the  style.  So  I  had  to  help  you  dis- 
cover that  you  were  a  Liberal.  Once  I  thought  I'd  declare 
right  against  you.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  would  have  braced  you 
up  and  made  you  take  things  seriously. 

lord  silverwell.     Take  things  seriously! 

MR.  torpenhouse.  What  I  call  seriously.  But  it  was 
that  ticklish  Home  Rule  time.  I'd  have  smashed  you 
politically  if  I  had.  You  were  wobbling  badly  over  it,  you 
know,  and  it  wouldn't  bear  wobbling  over.  So  of  course 
I  couldn't.  And  my  fravid  grew  and  grew  .  .  .  and  all 
my  salvation  when  the  day  came  was  to  fold  up  my  little 
Tory  vote  so  tight  and  drop  it  gently  in.  Well  .  .  . 
Newman  could  find  comfort  telling  beads  at  a  miracle- 
working  altar  in  Naples.  It  all  seems  unreal  now  ...  as 
I  look  back  on  it. 

lord  silverwell.  Lewis,  I  wonder  at  you  .  .  .  you  still 
show  a  most  twisted  sense  of  things  ...  I  must  say  it. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  have  a  twisted  sense  of  things. 
I  told  you  so.  I  am  the  crooked  man  .  .  .  whose  life's  a 
crooked  mile  ...  he  earns1  a  crooked  sixpence  .  .  .  and 
climbs  a  crooked  stile  .  .  .  into  a  straighter  world  for  him, 
he  always  hopes. 

lord  silverwell.  Have  you  ever  done  a  thing  for  me 
.  .  .  have  I  ever  asked  you  to  .  .  .  which  was  not  straight 
as  a  die?     I  wish  to  be  told. 

MR.  torpenhouse.     In  one  word? 

lord  silverwell.     Yes  or  No. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  White  or  black  .  .  .  Liberal,  Tory.  .  . 
true  or  false.  If  only  God  had  made  you  such  a  world  .  .  . 
and  given  it  to  you  once  for  all  .  .  .  why  then  perhaps  that 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  57 

honest  best  you've  always  done  would  be  enough  to  keep  it 
straight!  But  under  our  clothes  and  in  your  boots  we're 
queer  God's  creatures  still. 

lord  silverwell.  Frankly,  it  all  sounds  to  me  mere 
rubbish.  But  if  that's  how  you  feel  .  .  .  why  you  couldn't 
abstain  from  voting,  I  can't  think  .  .  .  that  would  have 
been  bad  enough. 

MR.  torpenhouse.  I  did  one  year.  I  simply  couldn't 
stomach  the  other  man  that  time. 

lord  silverwell.  Then  if  you  ever  let  it  be  a  personal 
question,  the  least  you  could  have  done  was  to  vote  for  me. 
No,  Lewis,  I  take  that  very  badly. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  That  year  I  was  tempted  to  vote  for 
you.  You  were  turning  so  nicely  that  year  .  .  .  but  I 
knew  you'd  still  go  the  wrong  way  at  Westminster.  ...  So 
I  didn't. 

lord  silverwell.    Turning? 

noel.     Tory. 

lord  silverwell.     What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

MR.  torpenhouse.  Oh,  you've  been  turned  for  some 
years  now.  It  has  quieted  my  conscience  a  little  .  .  . 
when  I  grew  sure  you  would.  That's  why  they've  made 
you  a  peer  .  .  .  and  for  other  reasons.  So  that  it  shouldn't 
be  noticed. 

lord  silverwell.     Are  you  serious? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Of  course. 

lord  silverwell.  I  have  never  been  so  insulted  in  all 
my  life. 

noel.     My  dear  father! 

lord  silverwell.     Torpenhouse  .  .  .  you  will  apologise. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I'm  afraid  I  can't. 

lord  silverwell.     Then  we  part. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  thought  we'd  better. 

noel.  That  seems  a  pity,  though,  doesn't  it,  if  you're 
really  in  political  agreement  for  the  very  first  time? 

MR.  torpenhouse.     I  doubt  if  we  should  find  quite  that. 


58  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

Mine  is  hardly  the  official  Tory  mind.     Why  should  it  be? 
But  he  of  course.  .  .  . 

lord  silverwell.  Mrs.  Torpenhouse  .  .  .  Good-bye. 
As  I  prefer  not  to  be  discussed  like  this  in  my  own  presence, 
I  will  remove  the  temptation. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  We  must  part  as  good  friends  as 
possible. 

lord  silverwell.  Whether,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  worth 
while  our  doing  anything  but  forget  all  the  nonsense  we've 
been  talking,  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  will  consider  to-morrow.  You're 
an  unaccountable  chap,  you  know.  You  always  were, 
confound  you.  Noel,  if  you've  your  car  here  I'll  drive 
home. 

noel.     I'll  walk.     I  want  a  walk. 

lord  silverwell.  See  you  to-morrow,  Lewis  .  .  .  see 
you  to-morrow. 

Lord  Silverwell  goes. 

noel.  I'll  tuck  him  in  warm.  You  ought  to  lie  down, 
you're  a  bit  shaken. 

mr.  torpenhouse.    Just  a  bit. 

noel.  We  must  have  you  in  Parliament.  Stand  .  .  . 
somewhere  else  .  .  .  next  January.  It'd  relieve  your  mind 
.  .  .  and  if  you  did  get  in  they'd  be  the  better  for  having 
you,  Heaven  knows. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  What,  join  that  mob  of  vulgar  dema- 
gogues who  now  prostitute  the  name  of  Tory  to  the  nation! 
Thank  you. 

noel.  Yes,  after  a  meeting  .  .  .  after  a  glorious  rally 
to  our  great  Principles  I  used  to  feel  something  like  that 
about  my  lot.  That's  really  why  I'm  not  standing  again. 
But  then  I'm  nothing  particular.  I'd  be  one  of  the  mob  .  .  . 
just  as  he  was.     You  wouldn't. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  shouldn't  have  been  .  .  .  perhaps. 

noel.     Good-bye,  Mrs.  Torpenhouse. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Good-bye. 
Noel  goes. 


VOTE  BY  BALLOT  59 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     My  dear,  I  felt  quite  frightened  for 
you.    .Are  you  better? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Better  than  I've  been  for  years. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Oughtn't  you  to  have  done  it? 

MR.  torpenhouse.     Done  what,  Mary? 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Voted  wrong. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  did  not  vote  wrong. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Well  .  .  .  right. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  It  was  a  matter  for  my  own  conscience. 
The  ballot  is  secret. 

"mrs.  torpenhouse.     I  never  thought  it  was  really  secret. 
I  thought  that  was  just  pretence  .  .  .  like  the  other  things. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  am  prepared  to  advocate  the 
abolition  of  the  ballot.  It  compromises  dignity  and  inde- 
pendence. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  And  that  would  have  saved  all  this 
happening. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     It  is,  in  itself,  demoralising. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     You  know  .  .  .  I've  got  a  vote. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  Of  course  ...  for  that  property  at 
Swindlands.     Only  for  the  Borough  Council. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Oh,  not  a  real  one.  And  I've  never 
used  it,  for  it  seemed  so  silly.     Is  there  a  ballot  there? 

MR.    TORPENHOUSE.      Yes. 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  Then  the  next  time  I  shall  go  over, 
it'll  be  such  fun.  D'you  remember  years  ago  when  we 
promised  to  have  no  secrets? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     I  remember. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     You  kept  this  from  me. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     There  are  others,  Mary. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  I  don't  mind.  I  daresay  it  has  been 
good  for  you.    I  shan't  tell  you  about  my  ballot  .  .  .  ever. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     My  dear. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Are  you  really  going  to  leave  Lord 
...  Mr.  Wychway? 

mr.  torpenhouse.    If  he'll  let  me. 


00  VOTE  BY  BALLOT 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  He  ought  to.  I  wanted  you  to  ten 
years  ago. 

mr.  torpenhouse.     We've  money  enough. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  Have  we?  Could  we  do  anything 
with  it? 

mr.  torpenhouse.     Would  you  like  to  travel? 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Yes,  perhaps. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I've  meant  and  meant  to  go  to  Spain 
.  .  .  not  for  a  week  or  two  ...  for  a  year  ...  to  live 
there  a  bit. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Why  Spain? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I  thought  of  it  when  I  had  to  learn 
Spanish  for  our  South  American  business.  What  a  waste, 
otherwise! 

mrs.  torpenhouse.  I  don't  think  I  should  like  Spain. 
But  you  go  .  .  .  why  not? 

mr.  torpenhouse.  What  .  .  .  after  telling  you  I  wanted 
to  kiss  pretty  girls? 

MRS.  torpenhouse.  They  wouldn't  look  at  you.  Yes, 
it  was  rather  vulgar  of  you  to  say  that  .  .  .  and  before 
Noel.     Young  men  think  you  mean  these  things. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  It's  not  such  a  journey  to  Spain  .  .  . 
and  if  I  didn't  like  it  I  could  come  back.  You  could  have 
Eleanor  to  stay  with  you.     Wychway  won't  let  me  leave. 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     You  could  make  him. 

mr.  torpenhouse.  I'm  rather  done  up  .  .  .  I'll  take 
a  book  to  my  room.  .  .  . 

mrs.  torpenhouse.     Yes  .  .  .  sleep's  what  you  need  .  .  . 

1  do  think. 

So  Torpenhouse  goes  to  his  room  to  lie  down.  And  he  may 
take  that  journey  to  Spain,  and  in  the  years  that  are  left 
him  he  may  do  lots  of  other  things.     Why  not  indeed? 


Farewell  to  the  Theatre 

1916 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 

FAREWELL   TO   THE   THEATRE 

This  talk  took  place  in  Edward's  office.  He  is  a  London  solici- 
tor and  his  office  reflects  his  standing.  It  is,  that  is  to 
say,  a  musty  dusty  room  in  a  house  two  hundred  years 
old  or  so,  now  mercilessly  chopped  into  offices.  The 
woodwork  is  so  old  and  cracked  that  new  paint  looks  old 
on  it  and  fresh  paper  on  the  walls  looks  dingy  in  a  day. 
You  may  clean  the  windows  (and  it  is  sometimes 
done)  but  nothing  will  make  them  shine.  The 
floor  has  been  polished  and  stained  and  painted  and 
scraped  and  painted  again  till  it  hardly  looks  like  wood 
at  all.  And  the  furniture  is  old,  not  old  enough  to  be 
interesting,  old  enough  to  be  very  respectable.  There 
are  some  pictures  on  the  wall.  One  is  a  good  print  of 
Lord  Mansfield,  one  represents  a  naval  battle,  the  third 
a  nondescript  piece  of  mountain  scenery.  How  the 
battle  and  the  twndescript  came  there  nobody  knows. 
One  pictures  some  distracted  client  arriving  with  them 
under  his  arm.  They  were  left  to  lean  against  the 
wall  ten  years  or  so;  then  a  clerk  hung  them  up.  The 
newest  thing  in  the  room  and  quite  the  strangest  seeming 
there  is  a  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece  of  Edward's 
daughter,  and  that  has  been  here  nine  years  or  so,  ever 
since  she  died.     A  pretty  child. 

Well,  the  papers  renew  themselves  and  the  room  is  full  of  them, 
bundles  and  bundles  and  bundles.  They  spread  about 
poor  Edward  like  the  leaves  of  a  forest;  they  lie  packed 
close  like  last  year's  leaves  and  in  time  are  buried 
deep  like  leaves  of  the  year  before  last.  His  clerk 
knows  what  they  all  are  and  where  everything  is.  He 
flicks  a  feather  duster  over  them  occasionally  and  has 
been  observed  to  put  some  —  very  reluctantly  —  away. 

63 


64  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

Very  reluctantly.  For,  after  all,  these  are  the  fabric  of 
a  first-class  practice  and  it  is  his  instinct  to  have  them 
in  evidence.  Edward  has  never  thought  about  it.  Thus 
was  the  room  when  his  uncle  walked  out  of  it  and  he 
walked  in  and  thus  he  will  leave  it  in  a  few  years  for 
some  junior  partner. 
Note  the  signs  then  by  which  a  lawyer  marks  himself  above  re- 
proach. Beware  the  businesslike  well-polished  office, 
clicking  with  machinery.  There  works  a  man  who  does 
not  practice  law  so  much  as  make  a  practice  of  it. 
Beware! 
Edward  is  at  his  desk.  Wherever  else  is  he,  unless  he  rises 
wearily  to  stretch  his  long  limbs  before  the  fire?  Thin, 
humorous  and  rather  more  than  middle-aged,  a  sen- 
sitive, distinguished  face.  One  likes  Edward. 
His  clerk  shows  in  Dorothy  Taverner.  Everybody  knows 
Miss  Dorothy  Taverner.  The  clerk  beams  at  her 
with  forgetful  joy  —  shamelessly  a  t  her  while  he  tries 
to  say  to  Edward,  "  Miss  Taverner,  sir."  Then  he 
departs. 
Edward.     How  punctual! 

dorothy.     Twelve  ten  by  the  clock  out  there.     Your  note 
said  eleven  thirty. 

edward.     And  I  said  "How  punctual!" 

They  shake  hands  like  the  oldest  friends.     He  bends  a 
little  over  her  pretty  hand. 
dorothy.     You  have  no  right  to  send  for  me  at  all  when 
I'm  rehearsing  .  .  .  and  you  know  it. 
edward.     It  was  urgent.     Sit  down. 
dorothy.     My    dear    Edward,    nothing   is    more   urgent 
than  that  my  rehearsals  should  go  right  .  .  .  and  if  I  leave 
the   company  to   the    mercy  of   my  understudy  and    this 
author-boy  .  .  .  though  he's  a  nice  author-boy  .  .  .  they 
don't. 
edward.     I'm  sure  they  don't. 
dorothy.     His  beating  heart  tells  him  that  we  must  all 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  65 


be  bad  actors  because  we  don't  live  and  move  just  like  the 
creatures  as  he  began  thinking  them  into  being.  He  almost 
weeps.  Then  I  tell  him  God  called  him  -into  collaboration 
fifty-three  flying  years  too  late    as  far  as   I'm  concerned. 

EDWARD.     Oh   ...  oh! 

dorothy.  Fifty-four  will  have  flown  on  November  the  next 
eighteenth.  And  that  cheers  us  all  up  and  we  start  again. 
Well,  dear  friend,  you  are  fifty-seven  and  you  .  .  .  look 
it.  Having  made  point  pause  for  effect.  Edward  carefully 
places  legal  documents  on  one  side. 

edward.     My  dear  Dorothy.  .  .  . 

dorothy.  That  tone  means  that  a  little  business  talk 
has  now  begun.  Where's  the  rickety  paper-knife  that  I 
play  with?    Thank  you. 

edward.  Vernon  Dix  and  .  .  .  Boothby,  is  that  the  name 
of  your  treasurer?  .  .  .  paid  me  a  formal  visit  yesterday 
afternoon. 

dorothy.     Behind  my  back!     What  about? 

edward.  They  complain  you  won't  look  at  your  balance 
sheets.  .  .  . 

dorothy.  XWith  cheerful  charm.'}  But  they're  liars. 
I  look  at  them  every  week. 

edward.     .  .  .  That  you  won't  study  them. 

dorothy.     I'm  studying  a  new  part. 

edward.  They  brought  me  a  pretty  full  statement.  I 
spent  some  hours  over  it. 

dorothy.     More  money  wanted? 

edward.  They  also  brought  me  the  estimate  for  this  new 
play. 

dorothy.     It'll  be  exceeded. 

edward.     Can  more  money  be  found? 

dorothy.     We  can  search. 

edward.    You  remember  the  last  search. 

dorothy.     The  rent's  paid  till  Christmas. 

edward.     Trust  your  landlord! 

dorothy.     This  play  may  do  well. 


66  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

edward.     It  may  not. 

Dorothy  gives  a  sigh.  With  an  impatient  gesture  or 
two  she  takes  ojf  her  hat  and  puts  it  obliviously  on 
Edward's  inkstand.  She  runs  her  fingers  through  her 
front  hair,  takes  out  a  hairpin,  and  viciously  replaces  it. 
Signs,  these  are,  that  she  is  worried. 

Dorothy.  Yes,  I  remember  the  last  search.  Nearly 
kissed  by  old  James  Levison  for  Dear  Art's  sake.  At  my 
age!  I  wonder  did  he  guess  what  an  even  choice  it  was 
between  five  thousand  pounds  and  boxing  his  fiat  white 
ears. 

edward.  There  was  Shelburne's  five  thousand  and  Mrs. 
Minto's  .  .  . 

dorothy.  Well,  I  did  kiss  Lord  Shelburne  .  .  .  he's  a 
dear.  Blue-eyed  and  over  seventy  or  under  twenty  .  .  . 
then  I  always  want  to  kiss  them.     Why? 

edward.  My  eyes  .  .  .  alas  .  .  .  were  never  blue  and 
never  will  be  now. 

dorothy.  Because  I  suppose  then  they  don't  care  whether 
I  do  or  not.  All  that  money  gone?  I'm  sorry.  Mrs. 
Minto  can't  afford  it. 

edward.  No,  it's  not  all  gone.  And  another  five  thousand 
will  make  you  safe  through  this  season.  Another  ten  thou- 
sand unless  you've  very  bad  luck  should  carry  you  to  Christ- 
mas .  .  .  otherwise,  if  this  new  play  isn't  an  instant  success, 
you  must  close. 

Dorothy  sits  upright  in  her  chair. 

dorothy.  I  have  been  in  management  for  sixteen  years. 
I  have  paid  some  dividends.  "Dividends"  is  correct,  I 
think. 

edward.  I  keep  a  sort  of  abstract  which  reminds  me 
of  the  fearful  and  wonderful  way  you  have  been  financed. 

dorothy.  Dear  Edward,  I  should  have  cheated  every- 
body but  for  you. 

edward.  I  have  also  managed  mostly  to  stop  you  from 
cheating  yourself.    Dorothy,  it  is  odd  that  the  people  who 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  67 

put  money  in  only  to  make  some  did  often  manage  to  make 
it  out  of  you,  while  the  people  who  stumped  up  for  art's  sake 
and  your's  never  got  anything  at  all. 

dorothy.  I  don't  see  anything  odd  in  that.  They  got 
what  they  wanted.  People  always  do.  Some  of  them  got 
the  art  .  .  .  and  one  of  them  nearly  got  me. 

edward.  Why  didn't  you  marry  him,  Dorothy?  A  good 
fellow  ...  a  good  match. 

dorothy.  Oh,  my  dear!  Marry  him?  Marry!  Con- 
found him  .  .  .  why  did  he  ask  me?  Now  I  can't  ever  ask 
him  for  a  penny  again.  Yes  ...  on  that  bright  Sunday 
morning  the  manageress  was  tempted,  I  won't  deny. 

edward.  But  the  record  of  the  past  five  years  does  not 
warrant  your  promising  more  dividends  .  .  .  and  that's 
the  truth. 

dorothy.  Well  .  .  .  shall  we  hide  the  balance  sheets 
away  and  shall  I  gird  myself  with  boastfulness  once 
more  .  .  .  once  weary  more?  What  is  our  record  for  Dear 
Art's  Sake?  Shakespeare  .  .  .without  scenery  .  .  .  Moliere, 
Holberg,  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Maeterlinck,  Shaw,  Hauptmann, 
d'Annunzio,  Benevente,  Giacosa,  Parraval,  Ostrowsky, 
Lavalliere,  Tchekoff,  Galsworthy,  Masefield,  Henniker 
and  Borghese,  Brieux,  Yeats,  van  Arpent  and  Claudel. 
Some  of  it  sounds  quite  old-fashioned  already  .  .  .  and 
some  has  begun  to  pay.  When  a  Knight  of  the  Garter  dies, 
you  know,  they  proclaim  his  title  over  his  tomb.  You'll 
have  to  come  to  my  burning,  Edward,  and  through  a  trumpet 
of  rolled-up  balance  sheets  proclaim  my  titles  to  fame. 
"She,  here  deceased,  did  her  duty  by  them,  Shakespeare, 
Ibsen"  .  .  .  How  I  hate  boasting!  And  boasting  to 
millionaires  to  get  money  out  of  them.  I'm  as  vain  as  a 
peacock  still  .  .  .  but  boasting  I  hate. 

edward.  Then  consider.  You  can  see  through  the  pro- 
duction of  this  .  .  .  what's  it  called? 

dorothy.     The  Salamander.     Good  title! 

edward.    If  it  fails  .  .  .  shut  up  .  .  .  finally. 


68  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

dorothy.  Yes  ...  I've  been  thinking  of  doing  that, 
Edward.  The  Salamander  won't  succeed  in  the  fine  full 
business  sense  .  .  .  though  now  I'm  whispered  that  for  the 
first  time  it  most  perversely  may. 

edward.     Then  what  on  earth  are  you  putting  it  up  for? 
dorothy.     Because  it's  good  enough  .  .  .  and  then  the 
next  can  be  better.     It  won't  succeed  because  I've  only  a 
small  part  in  it.     Say  Egoist  ...  say  Actress. 
edward.     Wiser  to  keep  out  altogether. 
dorothy.     And  then  it  wouldn't  succeed  because  the  dear 
Public   would  think    I   didn't  believe  in  it  enough.    Queer 
silly  children   the  dear  Public  are,  aren't   they?    For  ten 
years  now  my  acting  is  held  to  have  grown  steadily  worse, 
so  quite  rightly  they  won't  rush  to  plays  with  me  in  them. 
But  then  they  won't  have  my  plays  with  me  out  of  them 
either.     So  what's  a  poor  body  to  do? 

edward.  I  don't  hold  that  your  acting  has  grown 
steadily  worse. 

dorothy.     Well  .  .  .  not  steadily  perhaps.     But  I  never 
was  steady,  was  I?    And  you  don't  like  the  parts  I  choose? 
edward.     Not  when  you  hide  yourself  behind  them. 
dorothy.     I  never  do. 

edward.    Your  old  self!    But  I  want  you  to  finish  with 
it  all  anyway. 
dorothy.    Why? 

edward.     Because  I  fear  I  see  heart-break  ahead. 
dorothy.    That  you  need  never  look  to  see  ...  for  the 
best  of  reasons. 

edward.  You  still  do  care  ...  far  too  much. 
dorothy.  Do  I  hanker  for  the  old  thrill  .  .  .  like  wine 
bubbling  in  one's  heart  .  .  .  and  then  the  stir  in  the  audi- 
ence when  ...  on  I  came.  Dear  friend,  you  now  prefer 
my  acting  ...  off  the  stage.  My  well-known  enthusiasm. 
It  seems  to  me  it  rings  more  tinny  every  day.  I'm  glad  it 
takes  you  in.  Still,  even  that's  only  an  echo  .  .  .  growing 
fainter  since  I  died. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  69 

edward.     My  dear  Dorothy. 

dorothy.  Oh  .  .  .  but  you  knew  I  was  dead.  You 
own  now  to  mourning  me.  You  know  the  day  and  hour 
I  died.  Hypocrite  ...  I  remember  how  you  congratulated 
me  on  the  tragic  occasion  .  .  .  kissing  my  hand  .  .  .  you're 
the  only  man  that  does  it  naturally.  Doesn't  that  ab- 
stract remind  you  when  we  produced  The  Flight  of  the 
Duchess? 

edward.     Many  of  us  thought  you  very  good. 

dorothy.  Because  I  was  far,  far  better  than  many  a  bad 
actress  would  have  been.  It  is  the  queerest  sensation, 
Edward,  to  be  dead  .  .  .  though  after  a  while  you  get  quite 
used  to  it.     Are  you  still  alive,  by  the  way? 

edward.  There  is  the  same  feeble  flicker  that  there  has 
ever  been. 

dorothy.  Burn  on,  dear  Edward,  burn  on  .  .  .  that  I 
may  warm  my  poor  hands  sometimes  at  the  flame  you  are. 

edward.     It  can  serve  no  better  purpose. 

dorothy.     No.  ...  so  I'm  sure  I  think. 

There  falls  a  little  silence.     Then  Edward  speaks,  the 
more  bitterly  that  it  is  without  anger. 

edward.  Damn  them!  I'd  damn  their  souls,  if  they  had 
any.  They've  helped  themselves  to  you  at  so  much  a  time 
for  .  .  .  how  many  years?  Dorothy  .  .  .  what  have  they 
ever  given  you  in  return? 

dorothy.  Oh,  if  that  were  all  my  grievance  I'd  be  a 
happy  ghost  this  day.  If  I'd  a  thousand  souls  and  they 
wanted  them  .  .  .  the  dear  Public  ...  as  they  need  them 
.  .  .  God  knows  they  do  .  .  .  they  should  have  every  one, 
for  me.  What  does  the  law  say,  Edward?  Is  a  soul  private 
property? 

edward.     There  are  decisions  against  it. 

dorothy.  Then  I  prefer  your  law  to  your  religion.  It's 
more  public-spirited. 

edward.  My  ancestral  brand  of  religion,  my  dear, 
taught  me  to  disapprove  very  strongly  of  the  theatre. 


70  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

dorothy.  And  after  watching  my  career  you've  found 
out  why.     How  long  have  you  been  in  this  office,  Edward? 

edward.     Thirty  years,  nearly. 

Dorothy.  The  weight  of  them!  Do  you  remember  hav- 
ing tea  at  Richmond  ...  at  The  Roebuck  at  Richmond 
.  .  .  when  they'd  offered  you  this  billet  and  we  talked 
wisely  of  the  future? 

EDWARD.     I  do. 

dorothy.     And  I  made  you  take  it,  didn't  I? 

edward.     You  did. 

dorothy.     And  I  wouldn't  marry  you. 

Edward  looks  at  her.  One  side  of  his  mouth  twitches 
a  little.  You  might  charitably  call  it  a  smile.  But  his 
eyes  are  smiling. 

dorothy.     Don't  say  you  didn't  ask  me  to  marry  you. 

edward.     On  that  occasion? 

dorothy.  Yes  ...  on  that  occasion,  too.  That's  what 
one  calls  the  Past,  isn't  it?  How  right  I  was  .  .  .  and  what 
successes  we've  both  been. 

edward.  My  son  Charles  tells  me  that  I  have  done 
very  well.  Do  you  know,  I  was  moved  to  ask  him  the  other 
night  as  we  sat  in  the  box  whether  he  wasn't  in  love  with  you? 

dorothy.     Do  you  think  it's  hereditary? 

edward.     He  said  he  had  been  as  a  boy. 

dorothy.     How  old  is  he? 

edward.     Twenty-three. 

dorothy.  Bless  him!  If  young  things  love  you,  be  quite 
sure  that  you're  alive.     I  do  regret  sometimes. 

edward.     What  did  happen  ...  so  suddenly? 

dorothy.  What  happens  to  the  summer?  You  go 
walking  one  day  and  you  feel  that  it  has  gone. 

edward.    You've  been  that  to  the  Theatre. 

dorothy.  A  summer  day  ...  a  long,  long  summer  day. 
Thank  you.  I  prefer  the  sonnet  which  calls  me  a  breath  of 
spring.  But  truly  he  died  .  .  .  oh,  that  lion's  head  of 
his!  .  .  .  before  I  was  full  blown. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  71 

edward.     I  know  it  by  heart. 

dorothy.    It's  a  good  sonnet. 

edward.     It  makes  history  of  you. 

dorothy.  And  it  never  made  me  vain  a  bit  because  in- 
deed I  knew  it  was  true.  Yes,  I  like  to  be  standard 
literature. 

edward.  Easy  enough  for  a  poet  to  be  public-spirited 
over  you. 

dorothy.  But  from  the  time  I  was  born,  Edward,  I  believe 
I  knew  my  destiny.  And  I've  never  quarrelled  with  it  .  .  . 
never.  I  can't  imagine  how  people  get  along  if  they  don't 
know  by  sheer  instinct  what  they're  meant  to  be  and  do. 
What  muddles  they  must  make  of  life! 

edward.  They  do  .  .  .  and  then  come  to  me  for  advice. 
It's  how  you  told  me  to  earn  my  living. 

dorothy.  You  only  tell  them  what  the  law  says  and 
what  two  and  two  make.  That's  all  you  ever  tell  me. 
But  what  I  was  alive  for  I  have  always  known.  So  of  course 
I  knew  when  I  died. 

edward.     Dorothy,  my  dear,  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  say  it. 

dorothy.  Why?  We  must  all  die  and  be  born  again 
.  .  .  how  many  times  in  our  lives?  I  went  home  that 
night  and  sent  poor  old  Sarah  to  bed.  And  I  didn't  curse 
and  break  things  ...  I'd  always  let  myself  do  that  a 
little  on  occasion  ...  it  seemed  so  much  more  human  .  .  . 
when  I  was  alone  .  .  .  oh,  only  when  I  was  quite  alone. 
But  that  night  it  had  all  been  different  .  .  .  and  I  sat  still 
in  the  dark,  .  .  .  and  wondered  .  .  .  wondered  what  was 
to  happen  now.  It's  a  frightening  thing  at  best  to  lose 
your  old  and  well-trained  trusted  self  .  .  .  and  not  know 
what  the  new  one's  going  to  be.  I  was  angry.  I  had 
rehearsed  the  wretched  play  so  well  too.  Why  do  people 
think  I've  no  brains,  Edward? 

edward.     I  suppose  because  you're  so  pretty. 

dorothy.  Or  perhaps  because  I  don't  use  them  for  the 
things  they  were  never  meant  to  be  used  for.     I've  sometimes 


72  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

thought,  since  I  can't  act  any  longer,  I  might  show  the  dear 
Public  my  rehearsing.  That'd  teach  them!  But  there  .  .  . 
I've  come  down  to  wanting  to  teach  them.  Time  to 
retire.  For,  you  see,  after  that  night  I  wasn't  born  again. 
Something  .  .  .  didn't  happen.  And  a  weary  business  it 
has  been  finding  out  what.  With  the  dear  Public  helping 
me  to  discover  .  .  .  hard  on  them,  they've  thought  it.  And 
you  so  patient  with  my  passion  to  keep  on  failing  .  .  .  hard 
on  you.  For  you've  not  understood.  I've  disappointed  you 
these  later  years.     Own  up. 

edward.  If  it's  admitted  that  all  my  heart  is  your  most 
humble  servant  I'll  own  up  again  to  disapproving  of  the 
Theatre  ...  to  disapproving  most  thoroughly  of  acting  and 
of  actors  too  .  .  .  and  to  doubly  disapproving  when  any 
new  nonsense  about  them  is  added  to  life's  difficulties. 

dorothy.  Yes  ...  if  life's  so  important!  Well  ...  I 
have  four  hundred  a  year,  safe,  to  retire  on,  haven't 
I,  Edward? 

edward.     As  safe  as  money  can  be. 

dorothy.  I  do  think  that  money  ought  to  learn  to  be 
safe.     It  has  no  other  virtues.     And  I've  got  my  Abbey. 

edward.  Milford  Abbey  is  safe  for  you  from  every- 
thing but  earthquake. 

dorothy.  How  utterly  right  that  I  should  end  my  days 
in  a  shanty  built  out  of  the  stones  of  that  great  Abbey  and 
buttressed  up  in  its  shell. 

edward.     Is  it? 

dorothy.  Oh.  Edward,  if  you  had  but  the  artist's 
sense  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  you'd  find  it  such  a 
help.  .  .  . 

edward.  ...  To  imagining  Miss  Dorothy  leading  the 
Milford  monks  a  dance. 

dorothy.  Well  .  .  .  their  religion  was  not  of  this  world, 
nor  is  mine.  But  yours  is,  dear  Edward.  Therefore  the 
follies  of  art  and  saintliness  must  seem  to  you  two  sorts  of 
folly  and  not  one.     St.  Francis  would  have  understood  me. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  73 


I  should  have  been  his  dear  sister  Happiness.  But  you  and 
the  railway  trains  running  on  time  would  have  puzzled  him 
no  end. 

edward.  What  foolishness  makes  you  say  you're  dead, 
my  dear? 

dorothy.  While  ...  if  I'd  lived  the  cautious  life,  I 
shouldn't  be.  If  I'd  sold  my  fancies  for  a  little  learning, 
virginity  for  a  gold  ring,  likings  for  good  manners,  hate  for 
silence  ...  if  I  ever  could  have  learnt  the  world's  way 
...  to  measure  out  gifts  for  money  and  thanks  .  .  .  well, 
I'd  .have  been  married  to  you  perhaps,  Edward.  And  then 
you  never  could  have  enjoyed  my  Imogen  as  you  used 
to  enjoy  it.     You  used  to  say  it  was  a  perfect  tonic. 

edward.     So  it  was! 

dorothy.  Yes,  dear,  you  never  had  a  gift  for  subtle 
expression,  had  you? 

edward.  From  the  beginning  I  suppose  you  expected 
more  of  life  than  ever  I  could  find  in  it. 

dorothy.  Whatever  I  expected,  my  friend,  I  bargained 
for  nothing  at  all. 

edward.  I'd  like  you  to  know  this,  Dorothy,  that  ...  for 
all  my  rectangular  soul,  as  you  used  to  call  it  .  .  .  when 
I  asked  you  to  marry  me  .   .  . 

dorothy.     On  which  of  those  great  occasions? 

edward.  On  the  various  occasions  I  did  ask  you  before 
I  did  .  .  .  otherwise  .  .  .  marry. 

dorothy.  I  think  there  were  five  ...  or  six.  I  recall 
them  with  pride. 

edward.     But  not  with  enough  of  it  to  ensure  accuracy. 

dorothy.  And  was  it  never  just  for  the  sake  of  repeating 
yourself? 

edward.  No.  When  I  was  most  ridiculously  in  love 
I  used  to  think  three  times  before  I  faced  a  life  with  you  in 
that  .  .  . 

dorothy.     Well? 

edward.    That  flowery  wilderness  which  was  your  life. 


74  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 


I  knew  there  were  no  safe  roads  for  me  there.  And  yet  I 
asked  you  .  .  .  knowing  that  very  well. 

dorothy.  I'm  glad  ...  for  your  sake  .  .  .  that  you 
risked  it. 

edwakd.     Glad,  for  your  own,  you  didn't? 

dorothy.  Did  you  really  only  marry  her  because  I  told 
you  to? 

edward.    I  fear  so. 

dorothy.  That  was  a  wrong  reason  for  doing  the  right 
thing.  But  I  could  not  have  one  of  the  ablest  men  of  his 
set  in  everything  else  said  at  his  club  to  be  sentimentalizing 
his  life  away  about  an  actress  ...  I  really  couldn't.  They 
told  me  she  was  desperately  in  love  with  you.  And  I 
never  would  have  spoken  to  you  again  if  you  hadn't. 
Edward,  it  was  never  hard  on  her,  was  it? 

edward.  No,  Dorothy,  I  hope  and  think  it  never  was. 
I  made  her  happy  in  every  ordinary  sense  ...  at  least  I 
felt  she  felt  so. 

dorothy.     And  you  did  love  her,  didn't  you,  Edward? 

edward.  I  shouldn't  put  this  into  words  perhaps.  I 
thought  through  those  twenty-five  years  I  gave  her  all  the 
love  that  her  love  asked  for.  But  the  world  of  .  .  .  folly, 
one  calls  it  .  .  .  into  which  your  laugh  had  once  lifted 
me  .   .   . 

dorothy.     Or  was  it  wisdom? 

edward.  That,  my  dear  Dorothy,  was  the  problem  you 
would  never  consent  to  try  and  solve. 

dorothy.     She  never  could  have  liked  me,  Edward. 

edward  She  thought  you  a  great  artist.  She  had  judg- 
ment and  taste,  you  know. 

dorothy.  Yes  .  .  .  she  thought  me  an  attack  of  scarlet 
fever,  let  us  say  .  .  .  and  that  it  was  a  very  beautiful  scarlet. 

edward.     Dorothy,  somehow  that  hurts. 

dorothy.     I'm  sorry. 

edward.  Some  years  before  she  died,  her  nature  seemed 
to  take  a  fresh  start,  as  it  were.     It  shot  out  in  the  oddest 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  75 

ways  .  .  .  over  a  home  for  horses  and  cooking  reforms  .  .  . 
and. a  most  romantic  scheme  for  sending  strayed  servant  girls 
to  Australia  to  get  married.  If  there  had  been  any  genius 
in  my  love  for  her  .  .  .  would  she  have  had  to  wait  till 
forty-five  and  then  find  only  those  crabbed  half-futile 
shoots  of  inner  life  begin  to  show?  While  her  children 
were  amused  .  .  .  and  I  was  tolerant!  For  quite  incurably 
middle-aged  she  was  by  then.    .    .    . 

dorothy.    Had  she  dreaded  that? 

edward.  Not  a  bit.  Not  even  in  fun  ...  as  we  made 
such  a  fuss  of  doing. 

dorothy.  Admirable  Ethel!  Clear-eyed  and  so  firm 
footed  on  this  spinning  earth.  And  Life  her  duty  ...  to 
be  punctually  and  cheerfully  done.  But  over-trained  a 
little,  don't  you  think  .  .  .  just  for  her  happiness  sake. 

edward.     She  didn't  count  her  happiness. 

dorothy.     She  should  have. 

edward.     She  shouldn't  have  died  when  she  did. 

dorothy.     The  doctors  were  fools. 

edward.  Well,  it  was  a  while  after  .  .  ,  remembering 
my  love  for  you  ...  I  suddenly  saw  how  perhaps,  after 
all,  I  had  wronged  her. 

dorothy.  It  was  just  three  years  after  that  you  asked 
me  to  marry  you  again. 

edward.  You  forgave  me.  Let's  forget  it.  It  was  good 
to  feel  I  was  still  a  bit  of  a  fool. 

dorothy.     Folly  for  certain,  it  was  then? 

edward.     And  not  so  old  at  heart  as  you  thought. 

dorothy.  I  like  your  declarations,  Edward.  They're 
different.  But  never  from  the  beginning  have  you  been 
like  the  others. 

edward.     And  I  was  never  jealous  of  any  of  the  three. 

DOROTHY.      Four. 
EDWARD.      Four? 

dorothy.  One  that  you  never  knew  about.  I  told  you 
though  I  should  never  marry  .  .  .  and  I  never  have.     Per- 


76  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

haps  I'm  as  frightened  at  the  meaning  I  might  find  in  it  .  .  . 
as  you  ought  to  have  been. 

edward.  They  made  you  just  as  miserable  at  times, 
Dorothy,  as  if  you  had  married  them. 

dorothy.     Poor  dears. 

edward.  And  two  out  of  the  three  were  really  perfect 
fools. 

dorothy.  Three  out  of  the  four,  my  friend,  were  perfect 
fools  .  .  .  helpless  fools. 

edward.     Then  which  wasn't? 

dorothy.  The  one  you  never  guessed  about.  Don't 
try  to,  even  now.  He  never  really  cared  for  me,  you  see 
.  .  .  and  I  knew  he  didn't  .  .  .  and  so  I  was  ashamed  to 
tell  you. 

edward.     Now  when  was  that? 

dorothy.     You're  trying  to  guess. 

edward.     No,  honestly  .  .  . 

dorothy.  Do  you  remember  a  time  when  I  was  very 
cross  with  life  and  wouldn't  act  for  a  whole  year  ...  in  the 
days  when  I  still  could?  I  went  down  to  Grayshott  and 
started  a  garden  ...  a  failure  of  a  garden.  And  you  came 
down  to  see  me  .  .  .  and  we  talked  into  the  dark.  And  I 
said  I  ought  to  have  married  father's  scrubby-headed  assist- 
ant and  had  ten  children.  .  .  . 

edward.     I  vaguely  remember. 

dorothy.    Well,  it  wasn't    then  .  .  .  but   shortly  after. 

edwaed.    You  wanted  that  experience.  .  .  . 

dorothy.  No,  no!  How  dare  you?  Am  I  that  sort  of  a 
creature  .  .  .  collecting  sensations?  Sometimes,  Edward,  I 
find  you  the  biggest  fool  of  the  lot  ...  a  fool  at  heart, 
which  is  worse  than  a  fool  at  head  .  .  .  and  wickeder. 

edward.     I'm  sorry! 

dorothy.  Never  mind,  it's  not  your  fault  now  if  fresh 
air  disagrees  with  you.  And  you  can't  open  the  window 
here,  for  only  dust  comes  in. 

edward.    Is  the  room  stuffy? 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  77 

dorothy.     Yes  .  .  .  but  so's  London  .  .  .  and  so's  life. 

edward.  I  do  remember  there  was  a  time  when  I  thought 
you  were  hardening  a  little. 

dorothy.  Well,  it  wasn't  from  that  bruising.  No  man 
or  woman  in  this  world  shall  make  me  hard. 

edward.     Dorothy,  will  you  marry  me? 

dorothy  \Mer  voice  pealing  out.'}    Oh,  my  dear! 

edward.  That's  what  you  said  to  Blackthorpe  when  he 
offered  you  his  millions  on  a  bright  Sunday  morning.  Don't 
say  it  to  me. 

-  dorothy.  I  never  called  him  My  Dear  ...  I  was  much 
too  proper  .  .  .  and  so  is  he!  But  you  are  the  Dear  of  one 
corner  of  my  heart  ...  it  is  the  same  old  corner  always 
kept  for  you.  No,  no  .  .  .  that  sort  of  love  doesn't  live 
in  it.  So  for  the  .  .  .  seventh?  .  .  .  let's  make  it  the 
seventh  time  .  .  .  oh,  yes,  I  wear  them  on  my  memory's 
breast  like  medals  .  .  .  no,  I  won't. 

edward.  Very  well.  If  you  don't  want  to  raise  five 
thousand  pounds  you'd  better  close  the  theatre  after  this 
next  play's  produced. 

dorothy.  Heavens  above  .  .  .  that's  what  we  started 
to  discuss.     What  have  we  been  talking  of  since? 

edward.  Dear  Dorothy  ...  I  never  do  know  what  we 
talk  of.  I  only  know  that  by  the  time  I've  got  it  nound  to 
business  it's  time  for  you  to  go. 

dorothy.  Yes,  I  said  I'd  be  back  at  the  theatre  by  half- 
past  twelve. 

edward.     It's  long  after. 

dorothy.  I'm  so  glad.  They'll  finish  the  act  without 
me  and  lunch.     I  never  want  food.     Isn't  it  odd? 

edward.  Do  you  decide  to  close  the  theatre  after  this 
next  play? 

dorothy.  I  decide  not  to  ask  man,  woman  or  devil  for 
another  penny. 

edward.     Then  you  close. 

dorothy.     But  if  it's  a  success? 


78  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

edward.  Then,  when  it's  finished,  you  may  have  a  few 
pounds  more  than  four  hundred  a  year. 

dorothy.     I  don't  want  'em. 

edward.     But  you'll  close? 

dorothy.  I  will.  This  time  I  really  will  and  never, 
never  open  again.  I  want  my  Abbey.  I  want  to  sit  in  the 
sun  and  spoil  my  complexion  and  acquire  virtue.  Do  you 
know  1  can  have  fourteen  volumes  at  a  time  from  the  London 
Library? 

edward.     Yes  .  .  .  don't  spoil  your  complexion. 

dorothy.  Well  .  .  .  when  it  is  really  m  y  complexion  and 
no  longer  the  dear  Public's  I  may  get  to  like  it  better.  To 
acquire  knowledge  for  its  own  sake!  Do  you  never  have 
that  hunger  on  you?  To  sit  and  read  long  books  about 
Byzantium.  Not  frothy  foolish  blank  verse  plays  .  .  .  but 
nice  thick  meaty  books.  To  wonder  where  the  Goths  went 
when  they  vanished  out  of  Italy.  Knowledge  and  Beauty! 
It's  only  when  you  love  them  for  their  own  sake  that  they 
yield  their  full  virtue  to  you.  And  you  can't  deceive  them 
.  .  .  they  always  know. 

edward.  I'm  told  that  the  secret  of  money  making's 
something  like  that. 

dorothy.  Oh,  a  deadlier  one.  Money  's  alive  and  strong. 
And  when  money  loves  you...  look  out. 

edward.  It  has  never  wooed  me  with  real  passion.  Six 
and  eightpences  add  up  slowly. 

Dorothy  throws  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  her  eyes 
up  to  the  ceiling. 

dorothy.  You've  never  seen  me  asking  for  money  and 
boasting  about  my  art,  have  you? 

edward.     That  has  been  spared  me. 

dorothy.  I'm  sorry  you've  missed  it  for  ever.  It  is 
just  as  if  the  millionaire  and  I  .  .  . 

edward.    Though  they  weren't  always  millionaires. 

dorothy.  They  were  at  heart.  I  always  felt  we  were 
Striking   some  weird  bargain.     For  all  I'd  see  at  his  desk 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  79 

was  a  rather  apologetic  little  man  .  .  .  though  the  Giant 
Money  was  outlined  round  him  like  an  aura.  And  he'd 
seem  to  be  begging  me  as  humbly  as  he  dared  to  help  save 
his  little  soul  .  .  .  though  all  the  while  the  Giant  that  en- 
veloped him  was  business-like  and  jovial  and  stern.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  be  the  marrow  of  a  shadowy  giant,  Edward 
.  .  .  with  no  heart's  blood  in  me  at  all. 

edward.  That's  why  our  modern  offices  are  built  so 
high,  perhaps. 

dorothy.     Yes,  he  reaches  to  the  ceiling. 

edward.     And  are  very  airless,  as  you  say. 

dorothy.  Ah  .  .  .  it's  he  that  breathes  up  all  the  air. 
You  have  made  rather  an  arid  world  of  it,  haven't  you, 
Edward  .  .  .  you  and  Henry  and  John  and  Samuel  and 
William  and  Thomas? 

edward.     Will  Mary  Jane  do  much  better? 

dorothy.  Not  when  you've  made  a  bloodless  woman  of 
her.  And  you  used  to  bite  your  pipe  and  talk  nonsense 
to  me  about  acting  .  .  .  about  its  necessarily  debilitating 
effect,  my  dear  Dorothy,  upon  the  moral  character!  Edward, 
would  I  cast  for  a  king  or  a  judge  or  a  duchess  actors  that 
couldn't  believe  more  in  reigning  or  judging  or  duchessing 
than  you  wretched  amateurs  do  ? 

edward.  We  "put  it  over,"  as  you  vulgar  professionals 
say. 

dorothy.  Do  you  think  so?  Because  the  public  can't 
tell  the  difference,  as  the  voice  of  my  business  manager 
drones.  I've,  fancied  sometimes  that  poor  actors,  playing 
parts  .  .  .  but  with  real  faith  in  their  unreal  .  .  .  yet  live 
those  lives  of  yours  more  truly.  Why  .  .  .  swiftly  and 
keenly  I've  lived  a  hundred  lives. 

edward.      No  .  .  .  the  trouble  with  my  patients  .  .  . 

dorothy.  Of  course  they  are!  That's  why  I've  to  be 
brought  here  by  force.     I  never  feel  ill. 

edward.    Never  a  pain  in  the  pocket! 

dorothy.     I  never  feel  it. 


80  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

edward.  The  trouble  when  most  people  do  is  that  it's  all 
they  can  feel  or  believe  in.      And  I  have  to  patch  them  up. 

dorothy.  Put  a  patch  on  the  pocket  .  .  .  tonic  the 
poor  reputation. 

edward.  What  can  I  say  to  them?  If  they  found  out 
that  the  world  as  they've  made  it  doesn't  exist  ...  or  per- 
haps their  next  world  as  they've  invented  it  either.  .  .  . 

dorothy.  Oh  but  I  think  that  exists  .  .  .  just  about  as 
much.  And  that  you'll  all  be  there  .  .  .  bustling  among 
the  clouds  .  .  .  making  the  best  of  things  .  .  .  beating  your 
harps  into  coin  .  .  .  bargaining  for  eternity  .  .  .  and  saying 
that  of  course  what  you  go  on  in  hope  of  is  another  and  a 
better  world.  , 

edward.     Shall  we  meet? 

dorothy.  I  think  not.  I  flung  my  soul  over  the  foot- 
lights before  ever  I  was  sure  that  I  had  one  .  .  .  well,  I 
was  never  uncomfortably  sure.  As  you  warned  me  I  should 
.  .  .  biting  your  pipe.  No,  thanks,  I  don't  want  another. 
I  have  been  given  happier  dreams.  Do  you  remember  that 
letter  of  your  father's  that  I  would  read? 

EDWARD.      No.    .    .    . 

dorothy.  Oh  yes!  Think  twice,  my  dear  boy,  think 
twice  before  you  throw  yourself  away  on  this  woman. 

edward.     Old    innocent !     You  were  the  cautious  one. 

dorothy.  But  you  never  knew,  Edward,  how  tempted 
I  was. 

edward.  Dorothy,  don't!  The  years  haven't  taught  me 
to  take  that  calmly. 

dorothy.     Every  woman  is  what  I  was  more  or  less.  .  .  . 

edward.    Less. 

dorothy.  So  they  seem.  And  you  won't  pay  the  price 
of  more. 

edward.  What  was  it?  I  was  ready  .  .  .  and  ready  to 
pay. 

dorothy.  The  price  to  you  of  my  freedom  when  you  love 
me!    Why  .  .  .  dear  Edward  .  .  .  your  jaw  sets  even  now. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  81 

And  so  .  .  .  for  your  happiness  .  .  .  that  your  minds  may 
be  easy  as  you  bustle  through  the  world's  work  .  .  .  so  we 
must  seem  to  choose  the  cat-like  comfort  of  the  fireside, 
the  shelter  of  your  cheque-book  and  our  well-mannered 
world.  And,  perhaps  I  should  have  chosen  that  if  I  could 
have  had  my  choice. 

edward.     Dorothy! 

dorothy.  Had  not  some  ruthless  windy  power  from 
beyond  me  .  .  .  blown  me  free. 

edward.  Dorothy  .  .  .  I've  loved  you  .  .  .  and  I  do 
".  .  .  with  a  love  I've  never  understood.  But  sometimes  I've 
been  glad  you  didn't  marry  me  .  .  .  prouder  of  you  as  you 
were.     Because    my  love  would    seem  a  very   little  thing. 

DOROTHY.     It  is. 

edward.     I  never  boasted  .  .  .  never  of  that. 

dorothy.  But  the  more  precious  ...  a  jewel.  And  if 
we're  to  choose  and  possess  things  .  .  .  nothing  finer. 
My  dear  .  .  .  what  woman  wouldn't  love  you?  You've 
not  been  flattered  enough.  Never  mind  .  .  .  you  lost  no 
dignity  on  your  knees.  I  had  no  choice  though  but  to 
be  possessed  ...  of  seven  angels.  Oh,  my  dear  friend 
.  .  .  could  you  ever  have  cast  them  out? 

edward.  I've  watched  them  wear  you  through  .  .  .  the 
seven  angels  of  your  art  that  kept  you  from  me. 

dorothy.     Yes  .  .  .  I'm  a  weary  woman. 
For  a  moment  there  is  silence. 

edward.  But  sometimes  I've  wondered  .  .  .  what  we 
two  together  might  have  done.  Dorothy,  why  didn't  you 
try? 

dorothy.  Not  with  these  silly  self-conscious  selves. 
Poor  prisoners  .  .  .  born  to  an  evil  time.  But  visions  do 
come  ...  of  better  things  than  we  are  ...  of  a  theatre 
not  tinselled  .  .  .  and  an  office  not  dusty  with  law  .  .  . 
all  rustling  with  quarrelsome  papers.  How  wrong  to  tie  up 
good  lively  quarrels  with  your  inky  tape!  Oh,  shut  your 
eyes  .  .  .  it's  easier  to  see  then.    Are  they  shut? 


82  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

edward.  Close.  And  the  grip  of  your  hand  is  wonderful 
for  the  eyesight. 

dorothy.  Aren't  you  an  artist,  too,  Edward  .  .  .  our 
fault  if  we  forget  it.  For  Law  is  a  living  thing.  It  must 
be,  mustn't  it? 

edward.     Yes  ...  I  had  forgotten. 

dorothy.  My  dreams  and  the  stories  of  them  are  worth- 
less unless  I've  a  living  world  to  dream  of?  What  are  words 
and  rules  and  names?  Armour  with  nothing  inside  it.  So 
our  dreams  are  empty,  too. 

edward.  Dorothy,  my  dear,  it  may  sound  as  silly  as 
ever  when  I  say  it  .  .  .  but  why,  why  didn't  you  marry  me? 

dorothy.  Yes  ...  I  should  have  made  a  difference  to 
this  habitation,  shouldn't  I? 

edward.    Would  you  have  cared  to  come  here  then? 

dorothy.  Always  .  .  .  the  spirit  of  me.  And  I  do  think 
you  were  a  better  match  than  the  looking-glass. 

edward.  I  promise  you  should  always  have  found  your- 
self beautiful  ...  in  my  eyes. 

dorothy.  But  I'm  widowed  of  my  looking-glasses, 
Edward.  Have  you  noticed  that  for  fifteen  years  there's 
not  been  one  in  my  house  .  .  .  except  three  folding  ones  in 
the  bathrooms? 

edward.     I  remember  my  wife  remarking  it. 

dorothy.  Some  women  did  .  .  .  and  some  men  were 
puzzled  without  knowing  why. 

edward.     She  wondered  how  you  studied  your  parts. 

dorothy.  I  could  have  told  her  how  I  learnt  not  to  .  .  . 
and  it's  rather  interesting. 

edward.     Tell  me. 

dorothy.  This  is  perhaps  the  little  bit  of  Truth  I've 
found  .  .  .  my  little  scrap  of  gold.  From  its  brightness 
shines  back  all  the  vision  I  have  .  .  .  and  I  add  it  proudly 
to  the  world's  heap.  Though  it  sounds  the  silliest  thing 
...  as  silly  as  your  loving  me  at  fifty-seven,  more  babyishly 
than  you  did  at  seventeen. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  83 

edward.     Please  heaven  my  clerks  don't  see  me  till  .  .  . 

dorothy.  Till  you're  quite  self-conscious  again.  Well 
.  .  .  before  the  child  in  me  died  .  .  .  such  an  actress,  as 
you  all  thought,  as  never  was  .  .  . 

edward.  "O  breath  of  Spring!  Our  wintry  doubts  have 
fled." 

dorothy.     But,  remember,  all  children  could  be  like  that. 

edward.     I  deny  it. 

dorothy.  And  that's  why  they're  not.  Well,  growing 
older,  as  we  say  .  .  .  and  self-conscious,  Edward  ...  I 
found  that  the  number  of  my  looking-glasses  grew.  Till  one 
day  I  counted  them  .  .  .  and  big  and  small  there  were  forty- 
nine.  That  day  I'd  bought  the  forty-ninth  ...  an  old 
Venetian  mirror  ...  so  popular  I  was  in  those  days  and 
felt  so  rich.  Yes  .  .  .  then  I  used  to  work  out  my  parts  in 
front  of  every  mirror  in  turn.  One  would  make  me  prettier 
and  one  more  dignified.  One  could  give  me  pathos  and  one 
gave  me  power.  Now  there  was  a  woman  used  to  come 
and  sew  for  me.  You  know!  I  charitably  gave  her  jobs 
.  .  .  took  an  interest  in  her  "case"  .  .  .  encouraged  her 
to  talk  her  troubles  out  for  comfort's  sake.  I  wasn't 
interested  ...  I  didn't  care  one  bit  ...  it  didn't  comfort 
her.  She  talked  to  me  because  she  thought  I  liked  it  .  .  . 
because  she  thought  I  thought  she  liked  it.  But,  oddly, 
it  was  just  sewing  she  liked  and  she  sewed  well  and  sewing 
did  her  good  .  .  .  sewing  for  me.  You  remember  my  Lily 
Prince  in  The  Backwater? 

edward.     Yes. 

dorothy.     My  first  real  failure. 

edward.     I  liked  it. 

dorothy.  My  first  dead  failure  .  .  .  dear  Public.  Do 
you  know  why?  I  hadn't  found  her  in  the  mirrors,  I'd 
found  her  in  that  woman  as  she  sewed. 

edward.     I  didn't  think  it  a  failure. 

dorothy.  Well  .  .  .  the  dear  Public  wouldn't  pay  to 
see  it  .  .  .  and  we've  found  no  other  word.     But  I  knew 


84  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 

if  that  was  failure  now  I  meant  to  fail  .  .  .  and  I  never 
looked  in  a  mirror  again.  Except,  of  course,  to  do  my 
hair  and  paint  my  poor  face  and  comically  comfort  myself 
sometimes  ...  to  say  .  .  .  "Dorothy,  as  mugs  go  it's  not 
such  an  ugly  mug."  I  took  the  looking-glasses  down  .  .  . 
I  turned  their  faces  to  the  wall.  For  I  had  won  free  from 
that  shadowed  emptiness  of  self.  But  nobody  understood. 
Do  you? 

edward.  If  I  can't  .  .  .  I'll  never  say  that  I  love  you 
again. 

dorothy.  What  can  we  understand  when  we're  all  so 
prisoned  in  mirrors  that  whatever  we  see  it's  but  our- 
selves .  .  .  ourselves  as  heroes  or  slaves  .  .  .  suffering,  tri- 
umphant .  .  .  always  ourselves.  Truth  lives  where  only 
other  people  are.  That's  the  secret.  Turn  the  mirror  to 
the  wall  and  there  is  no  you  .  .  .  but  the  world  of  other 
people  is  a  wonderful  world. 

edward.  We've  called  them  your  failures  perhaps  .  .  . 
when  we  wouldn't  follow  you  there. 

dorothy.  And  I  that  have,  proudly,  never  bargained 
was  so  tempted  to  bargain  for  success  ...  by  giving  you 
what  your  appetites  wanted  .  .  .  that  mirrored  mannequin 
slightly  oversize  that  bolsters  up  your  self-conceit. 

edward.  But  you  had  meant  our  youth  to  us,  Doro- 
thy. .  .  . 

dorothy.  I'd  given  you  that  .  .  .  the  flower  of  me. 
Had  I  grudged  it? 

Edward.     I  think  we're  frightened  of  that  other  world. 

dorothy.    Well  you  may  be! 

edward.  If  we  couldn't  find  ourselves  there  with  our 
virtues  and  our  vanity  .  .  .  the  best  and  worst  of  what  we 
know. 

dorothy.  So  you  all  failed  me,  you  see  .  .  .  for  I'd 
given  you  my  life  and  what  other  had  I?  And  I  failed  .  .  . 
died  .  .  .  not  to  be  born  again.  Oh,  my  poor  theatre! 
Keep  it  for  a  while  then  to  patronise  and  play  with.    But 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE  85 

one  day  it  shall  break  you  all  in  pieces.      And  now  my  last 
curtsey's  made  .  .  . 

The  paper  knife  she  has  been  playing  with  snaps. 

Edward.  Dorothy  .  .  .  what  an  omen!  Not  your  last 
visit  here,  too! 

dorothy.  A  fine  omen.  I  do  not  surrender  my  sword! 
But  I  shouldn't  march  off  quite  so  proudly,  Edward,  if  it 
weren't  for  a  new  voice  from  that  somewhere  in  me  where 
things  are  born  saying  .  .  .  shall  I  tell  you  what  it  says? 

edward.     Please. 

dorothy.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Dorothy's  soul.  Charac- 
ters ...  A  voice  .  .  .  Dorothy.  Dorothy  discovered  as  the 
curtain  rises  in  temper  and  tears.  The  voice:  "Thirty-five 
years  finding  out  your  mistake!  But  that's  a  very  short 
time."  Dorothy:  "Boohoo!  .  .  .  but  now  I'm  going  to  die." 
The  voice:  "  Who  told  you  so?"  Dorothy:  "Oh  .  .  .  aren't 
I?  ...  or  rather  Am  I  not?"  The  voice:  "Dorothy,  my 
dear  .  .  .  what  led  you  that  November  day  to  your  ruined 
Abbey?  What  voice  was  it  called  to  you  so  loud  to  make 
it  yours?  Yours!  What  are  you  beside  the  wisdom  of  its 
years?  You  must  go  sit,  Dorothy,  sit  very  patiently,  in  the 
sunshine  under  the  old  wall  .  .  .  where  marigolds  grow  .  .  . 
and  there's  one  foxglove  .  .  .  (hsh!  I  planted  it!).  Did  it 
trouble  those  builders  .  .  .  who  built  it  not  for  themselves 
.  .  .  not  for  you  .  .  .  but  to  the  glory  of  God  they  built 
it  .  .  .  did  it  trouble  them  that  they  were  going  to  die?" 
Dorothy:  "If  they'd  known  that  the  likes  of  me  would  one 
day  buy  it  with  good  hard  cash  they'd  have  had  heart 
failure  on  the  spot.  Besides  they  did  die  and  their  blessed 
Abbey's  a  ruin."  Two  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  it 
cost  me  to  do  it  up! 

EDWARD.     Well? 

dorothy.  If  I  say  anything  like  that,  of  course,  the  voice 
is  silent.  But  if  I  sit  there  after  sunset  when  the  world's 
all  still  ...  I  often  sit  to  watch  the  swallows,  and  if  you 
keep  quiet  they'll  swoop  quite  close  .  .  .  then  I  can  hear 


86  FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 


the  voice  say:  "They  built  the  best  they  could  .  .  .  they 
built  their  hearts  into  the  walls  .  .  .  they  mixed  the  mortar 
with  their  own  heart's  blood.  They  spoke  the  truth  that 
was  in  them  and  then  they  were  glad  to  die."  "But  was  it 
true? "I ask.  "And  see  how  the  wall  is  crumbling."  And 
then  the  voice  says,  "  What  is  Truth  but  the  best  that  we  can 
build?  .  .  .  and  out  of  its  crumbling  other  truth  is  built. 
Are  you  tired,  Dorothy?"  I  answer:  Yes,  that  I  am  very 
tired.  I  sit  there  till  the  stars  shine  and  there  are  friendly 
spirits  around  me.  Not  the  dead  .  .  .  never  .  .  .  but  the 
unborn  .  .  .  waiting  their  heritage  .  .  .  my  gift  to  them 
.  .  .  mine,  too.  That's  the  true  length  of  life  .  .  .  the 
finished  picture  of  his  being  that  the  artist  signs  and  sells 
.  .  .  gives  .  .  .  loses!  It  was  his  very  soul  and  it  is  gone. 
But  then  he  is  glad  to  go  ...  to  be  dust  again  .  .  .  noth- 
ingness ...  air  ...  for  he  knows  most  truly  .  .  . 

edward.     What? 

dorothy.  Why,  I  told  you.  That  he  was  always  nothing- 
ness called  by  some  great  name  .  .  .  that  the  world  of 
other  people  is  the  only  world  there  is.  Edward  .  .  .  what's 
the  time? 

edward.     Past  one. 

dorothy.  Well,  I'm  hungry.  Take  me  out  and  give  me 
lunch. 

edward.     Bless  you  ...  I  will. 

With  three  fine  gestures  she  puts  on  her  hat  again.  Time 
was  when  one  would  sit  through  forty  minutes  of  a  dull 
play  just  to  see  Dorothy  take  of  her  hat  and  put  it  on 
again.  Much  less  expressively  he  finds  his  and  they 
go  out  together.  The  clerks  all  stare  ecstatically  as 
she  passes. 


D 


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